


Royal Blood Royal Body

by crystalsexarch



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Angst, Blow Jobs, Breast Fucking, Brooding, Creampie, Double Penetration, Drunk Sex, F/F, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Grief/Mourning, Hooded Exarch Shenanigans, Lazy Sex, M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Masturbation, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Multi, Nipples, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Pegging, Pre-Canon, Threesome - F/M/M, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020, Vaginal Sex, Vampires, Voyeurism, tiddy sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 33,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26253889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalsexarch/pseuds/crystalsexarch
Summary: A collection of stories for the 2020 FFXIV Writing Challenge, which you can learn more abouthere.Ratings will range from General to Explicit, all marked in the table of contents and elsewhere. ToC will also mark stories with patch 5.3 spoilers. Tags to be updated.Twenty-nine: PaternalMature. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. The Warrior of Light takes some time off to do work some might call sordid. At least one person isn't too happy with him.Thirty: SplinterExplicit. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. Third and final part to the Muster/Free Day 4/Splinter trilogy. Hooded Exarch shenanigans. The Warrior of Light has received something from the Crystal Tower's keeper, and now he offers something in return.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, Lucia goe Junius/Warrior of Light, Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 155
Kudos: 210
Collections: Final Fantasy Write Prompt Challenge 2020





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again...happily!
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@crystalsexarch](https://twitter.com/crystalsexarch)

**01\. Table of Contents**

❁

**02\. Prompt One: Crux**  
Teen. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. Though the Warrior of Darkness has urgent duties to perform on the First, he is plagued by a sickness of light...and persistent questions about the man who brought him here.

❁

**03\. Prompt Two: Sway**  
Explicit. Ambiguous female WoL. Has a tail. Haurchefant and the Warrior of Light spend a lazy morning working _very_ hard.

❁

**04\. Prompt Three: Muster**  
Explicit. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. The Crystal Exarch appears in a dream so realistic, the Warrior of Darkness swears he can taste it...or perhaps he can. Pre-reveal tomfoolery with mild angst.

❁

**05\. Prompt Four: Clinch**  
Teen. Male specific WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. Aymeric tries to figure out why he and the Warrior of Light can never fall asleep at the same time. Figuratively? Literally? Yes.

❁

**06\. Prompt Five: Matter of Fact**  
Explicit. Ambiguous male WoL. Second person. G'raha Tia's tries to wash out the taste of secrets in his mouth with something else.

❁

**07\. Prompt Six: Free Day**  
Explicit. Ambiguous female WoL. Explicit. G'raha Tia has an _intense_ reaction to something he saw wading in the waters of Mor Dhona: a topless Warrior of Light.

❁

**08\. Prompt Seven: Nonagenarian**  
Teen. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. Ishgardian vampires. Okay? That's it. That's the entry.

❁

**09\. Prompt Eight: Clamor**  
Mature. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. A study in dreams. Aymeric is involved. G'raha Tia is involved.

❁

**10\. Prompt Nine: Lush**  
I'll call it explicit. Estinien/Aymeric is the focus here, though there is specific male WoL present. Florian Loudin. Let's just say those nights in Dravania and above get lonely...

❁

**11\. Prompt Ten: Avail**  
Teen. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. The Warrior of Light has to learn how to write again. Alphinaud wants to help.

❁

**12\. Prompt Eleven: Ultracrepidarian**  
Explicit. Ambiguous second-person WoL and G'raha Tia. Late at night, when one touches on certain topics, one feels compelled to start touching other things, too.

❁

**13\. Prompt Twelve: Tooth and Nail**  
Explicit. Ambiguous second-person WoL. Pre-reveal Shadowbringers. The Warrior's questions about the Exarch burn like memories of a place where two once shared warmth.

❁

**14\. Thirteen: Free Day 2**  
Explicit. Ambiguous female WoL. The Warrior of Light persuades Estinien and Aymeric to try something new with her.

❁

**15\. Prompt Fourteen: Part**  
General. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. Something has upset the Warrior of Light, and Aymeric is keen on making things right.

❁

**16\. Prompt Fifteen: Ache - T**  
Teen. 5.3 spoilers. Specific WoL. Emet-Selch retrieves his fellow Convocation member from a pile of rubble and tells him to shut up.

❁

**17\. Prompt Sixteen: Lucubration**  
Teen. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. The future Warrior of Light tries to get his fellow scholar G'raha Tia to come to bed.

❁

**18\. Prompt Seventeen: Fade**  
Explicit. Ambiguous female WoL. Lucia spies Aymeric and the Warrior of Light engaging in some manner of tussle, and thus tussles with her own romantic feelings...in a similarly physical way.

Aaaaaaand I definitely added a second part where the inverse happens as well.

❁

**19\. Prompt Eighteen: Panglossian**  
Mature. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. 5.3 spoilers. The Warrior of Light has nightmares the day before he and the newest Scion are to meet his former flame: Ser Aymeric.

❁

**20\. Prompt Nineteen: Where the Heart Is**  
Teen. Ambiguous female WoL. Post ShB. WoL/Exarch and past WoL/Haurchefant. The Warrior of Light is visited by a familiar light.

❁

**21\. Prompt Twenty: Free Day 3**  
Teen. Ambiguous female WoL. Continued from nineteen. WoL/Exarch with past WoL/Haurchefant.

❁

**22\. Prompt Twenty-one: Foibles**  
Explicit. Specific male WoL. Florian Loudin. The Warrior of Light struggles to enjoy a tawdry tale, and instead enlists the help of Haurchefant.

❁

**23\. Prompt Twenty-two: Argy-bargy**  
Explicit. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. Takes place before ARR, when G'raha Tia and the future Warrior of Light studied together. Tonight, though, they attend a party and quickly go from making a scene to making ugly, drunken love.

❁

**24\. Prompt Twenty-three: Shuffle**  
Explicit. Ambiguous female Auri WoL. Same one from [What We Already Know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439155/chapters/50084984). I'll keep it simple: Aymeric gets pegged, and Estinien has a good time watching.

❁

**25\. Prompt Twenty-four: Beam**  
General. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. 5.3 spoilers. Alisaie has to track down the Warrior of Light and the newest member of the Scions so they can enjoy a day at the beach. She finds them...along with signs of trouble.

❁

**26\. Prompt Twenty-five: Wish**  
Teen. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. The Warrior of Light leaves Aymeric in the middle of the night.

❁

**27\. Prompt Twenty-six: When Pigs Fly**  
Mature. Ambiguous male WoL. The Warrior of Light toils with the impossible idea that G'raha Tia might not just be a friend with benefits—but a friend. Or more.

❁

**28\. Prompt Twenty-seven: Free Day 4**  
Explicit. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. Continued from Muster. The Warrior of Light confronts the (pre-reveal) Crystal Exarch about what some might call untoward behavior...and said behavior escalates.

❁

**29\. Prompt Twenty-eight: Irenic**  
Explicit. Ambiguous WoL, second-person. Aymeric's cat wakes him from a pleasant dream, and there's something he must do before returning to bed.

❁

**30\. Prompt Twenty-nine: Paternal**  
Mature. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. The Warrior of Light takes some time off to do work some might call sordid. At least one person isn't too happy with him.

❁

**31\. Prompt Thirty: Splinter**  
Explicit. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. Third and final part to the Muster/Free Day 4/Splinter trilogy. Hooded Exarch shenanigans. The Warrior of Light has received something from the Crystal Tower's keeper, and now he offers something in return.


	2. One: Crux - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt One: Crux**  
>  Teen. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. Though the Warrior of Darkness has urgent duties to perform on the First, he is plagued by a sickness of light...and persistent questions about the man who brought him here.

He knows, to an extent, that he has been blinded, but he isn’t ready to name the wool.

“Bas’ir,” Thancred says, a million malms away or more. Closer, the Exarch climbs the steps to his Tower, hunching slightly at the weight of the Warrior’s eyes on his back. Bas’ir is squinting, counting something he can’t see, as if he could read the secret from the number of stones carrying the Crystarium. The sandaled man, all the way across the Exedra, feels almost within reach when he waves at his guard, turns just a hair over his shoulder, and—Bas’ir swears he can see it—smiles.

A bristling tail. Leather-clad fingers tightening on leather. A dark black spot on the surface of the sun.

“Bas’ir,” Thancred says, for what is certainly the first time. Young Minfilia, flanking him, knits her eyebrows. The countenance she shares with her namesake casts an unknowing ghost upon all she sees, including the miqo'te tasked with preventing the apocalypse.

The Warrior unwinds and shakes his head. “Don’t trust him,” he says, hustling toward the Aetheryte Plaza. Both his arm of flesh and his arm of metal are stiff at his sides. “Don’t trust him one bit.”

Thancred’s eyes follow before his feet, before Minfilia follows him. “You may have mentioned, oh...half a dozen times now.”

“Why should I trust him? Duty gets done all the same.”

“Your unwavering commitment to the cause is something to admire.” Thancred turns his head like he means to exchange glances with Urianger, but Urianger isn’t here. Not in the Plaza, nor in the Rotunda at large, as far as the gunbreaker can see. Bas’ir stops and sways before the aetheryte, stiff duster drawing his shoulders into neat points. Thancred thinks he looks, even after all this time, like a man who doesn’t quite fit his boots. But he certainly looks older. “Though I suppose you’ve never been known to get something done without complaining about it.”

Bas’ir feels suddenly like _he’s_ the one who’s spent half a decade away from a comrade. Instead of letting it sting, he casts his gaze back to the Dossal Gate, as though a hooded head might peek out from the Tower’s entrance at any second. “Let me ask you, Archon,” he says with a whip of his tail—still dark but the very tips, unlike the gray hair on his head—and then the question is gone, lost in the nauseous light of his body. He hits his own chest and accidentally lets new questions surface: _why is the Exarch lying? What is he lying about? And what is happening to me?_

The answers sting like static in his ears. Or perhaps that’s just another side effect of whatever he has swallowed. Whatever he is coming dangerously close to spitting back up.

Thancred’s at his shoulder, easing him rightways, calling his name, by the look of his lips. Instead of hearing it, Bas’ir focuses on the incessant tightening in his right hand, his only hand of flesh. It summons another that he can feel but not feel, cannot grip but must grip. It’s the look on Minfilia’s face that coaxes the spell out of him—the light, not the phantom burning in the shadow of his prosthetic. Once again, he remembers how he learned to hide his pain from people with eyes that rhyme with Eorzean skies.

“You’re all right?” Thancred says, clapping his shoulder.

Bas’ir’s right hand continues twitching in time with his invisible left. His left eye winks with sympathy. “As ever.”

Thancred chews an apology, then swallows it. It leaves a bitter taste. “Urianger has yet to make his presence known.” He keeps the words low. “Should you take a few moments to yourself, I scarcely doubt he would fault you. And...nor would I."

"Do you trust him?" Bas'ir asks, now gripping his arm where machine meets man, as if he doesn't know it won't help. "The Exarch. Not Urianger."

"Yes," Thancred says. Minfilia is watching. He slicks his hair back and looks down the corridor that leads to Musical Universalis. No astrologians in sight. "But for what it's worth, I expect you'll find Y'shtola more...receptive to your doubts."

Bas'ir looks down to the base of the aetheryte and measures his breaths. He has half a mind to return to the Tower and speak with the Exarch alone, to rummage through new, old hallways and sniff out secrets. But the other half of his mind wins. "I shall...make my own way to the Greatwood. Meet me at its entrance." He sets both of his arms before him and rolls his wrists.

"Be...be careful," Minfilia says, one hand hovering at her collar.

Bas'ir's eyes flicker to her. He lets his arms droop back to his sides before nodding and leaving the Crystarium.

Moments later, as he watches the sky from atop a hill in Lakeland, he considers the toxicity of his paranoia. Is the recipe wrong? Has he missed the mark in questioning the man who summoned him to the familiar place of a foreign place? From his position, and perhaps all positions in Lakeland, he could see the Tower, foreboding and blue. The returned sky did it no favors, he thinks. How anyone can expect him to look at _that thing_ and not feel _something_ —it is beyond him. There, he had lost not only his arm, but….

It was insulting. At least his stomach has settled.

While Bas’ir lies in the grass with his hands beneath his head, wondering if the so-called Exarch might be walking around in someone else’s body, two sets of eyes are upon him in secret: those of the Exarch himself, and the Ascian who has found himself asking questions with a similar taste about Bas’ir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't matter if you can sniff out the association with crux!! I wrote something!! Hmph!!


	3. Two: Sway - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt Two: Sway**  
>  Explicit. Ambiguous female WoL. Has a tail. Haurchefant and the Warrior of Light spend a lazy morning working _very_ hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once a Haurchefucker, always a Haurchefucker
> 
> I DID NOT HAVE a LOT OF TIME TO EDIT THIS, SO I AM SORRY

Haurchefant was lying on his bed with his arms cradling his head, a muted smile on his face, and not a shred of clothes on his body. Upon his chest was a freshly showered Warrior of Light. “You’re not cold?” she said. From her lilting tail, to her tiny hands folded at his collarbone, she oozed comfort. The picture of relaxation and love, but for a sinister glint in her eye.

"Hmm?" he said. "I'm content where I am."

"That's not what I asked."

"And where you are." Like he was stretching, he spread out his arms before setting them at her hips. Fingers traced vertebrae, pink scars, tough constellations lined out on her skin. "Now that you've got me like this, I'm not eager to move."

"You're quite talkative for a pillow."

"And you, quite alluring for a blanket."

She smiled and closed her eyes. Banter aside, he was hard and had been for quite some time. Her hips sat a full length above his, meaning she felt every few seconds the bob of his arousal at her bottom. She knew it wasn’t something they had to address—that was the beauty of it—but they had time to kill and every right to spend it holding each other and whispering of warmth. Or fucking.

She eased back a few ilms so his erection was flat against her slit instead.

"Oh?" he said with an instinctive press of his nails into her skin. "Has my love given me a sign to read? Some manner of signal?"

A breathy laugh. "Do you consider yourself literate?"

He slipped his hands up her back and set one at her neck, the other at her chin, which he tilted higher. Had to make sure she could see the affection in his gray eyes. When he knew she was looking, he blinked like a happy cat. "I do."

All was thumping hearts and early birds roosting near his quarters at Camp Dragonhead. Bits of sunlight had danced into the room, but it landed on the back of the Warrior’s head. Somehow, in her shadow he still had sparkles in his eyes, and that’s what she watched before committing to turning the page. “Very well.”

She wrapped her arms around him and set about kissing his lips, his cheeks, his nose. When she rose for his head, he opened his eyes to see a wall of breasts before his face. Quite pleased with the development, _he_ set about kissing _them_.

Cooing, she adjusted. "I like that…"

He alternated his focus from her left to her right, now bringing his tongue into the mix. Gentle as he always was with it between her legs, he brought more a graceless vigor to her nipple, sucking first, biting second, tongue teasing the tip all the time. His large, careful hands wrapped around her ribs, rubbing.

She felt worshiped already. What would his chosen god think of her? "It's a shame you can't do that and...and have at me at the same time."

"Mm?" With a tiny pop, he removed his lips from her silk-soft skin. "I'm surprised, my darling. By now you ought to know not to underestimate me." In preparation for what she knew would be an ambitious maneuver, he wiggled his hips beneath her.

"No, no," she scolded. "No amount of contortion will change the fact that you're nigh three heads taller than I."

“Ah, but that inherently means I’ve more length to work with.” He started eyeing her underside with the look of an eager engineer.

She reared back in laughter. “Insufferable.”

“Work with me?” He scooted back on the bed, bringing her with him. “If I place myself here—”

“Your poor back, in that position.”

“Then set you—” He grabbed her hips and lifted.

“Oh!”

“Here…” They were both sitting nearly upright, but she was on her knees with her arms on his shoulders. If she relaxed her thighs, she’d land right on his dick.

Before letting nature take its course, she had to laugh a little. “This hardly seems like a sustainable solution.”

“Consider it a starting point.” Without breaking eye contact, he cupped her breast with his index finger and thumb. Again, his hardness was knocking at her door. “So shall we? Start?”

They started. Haurchefant spent the first few minutes blinking up at the Warrior with his pretty lashes. While she rode him slowly, he doted on each of her breasts obediently. In the end, she lacked the stamina to maintain her position and opted instead to collapse upon his chest and focus on fastness. Whenever she took the lead, there was always a certain point at which she _couldn’t_ lead—she just did what came naturally. And that happened to be something faster than what he had in mind.

“Ah ah ah—” He squeezed her hips harder and straightened his back, grinning through his teeth.

She had no choice but to stop moving, but she didn’t stop panting. “Too much?”

“It feels...quite nice, my love. Perhaps _too_ nice.” He wiped a bead of sweat from her brow with his thumb. “Unless you've committed to a hastened finale.”

She swept her hand across his pale abdomen, muscled but soft. “Hm? Would you prefer to set the pace, then?”

“I have no qualms about doing so.”

“Well, can you roll me over without—”

Gripping her body tight, he rolled her over, making sure they never came apart. They landed at an odd angle a quarter of the way off the bed. Chuckling proudly, Haurchefant embraced the circumstances and placed one leg on the floor to make good on his promise. He certainly didn’t slow down. On the contrary, he was driving so fast she started to wonder whether his earlier complaints had been a ploy to get on top of her. She wasn’t going to call him out, certainly not when she was seeing stars.

“Does it please you, Warrior?” he said.

“It...it does. Rather, _you_ do.”

He lapped up that validation with a hearty sigh, all the while keeping up his business, whether he was looking toward the heavens or down to her heavenesque eyes. She couldn’t _wait_ for him to come inside her. More that morning than most nights, the idea lit an aggressive craving in her gut. Blasphemous, she thought with her mouth wide open, that his seed would make her feel holy and chosen. She’d have let him fuck her in the Basilica, right in front of Halone Herself if he promised not to pull out.

Grunting, he started drawing farther back before each crest. Then came a thought she’d be embarrassed to think of later—the thought that the rhythm of his balls pressing at her center was nearly enough to send her over. Just enough contact in just the right places. Blushing, she pressed the side of her face into the pillow.

“Everything all right?” Dark and husky, his voice at her neck, his pace unyielding.

“Yes,” she said. No other thoughts made it out.

The left corner of his lips ticked up. “Having trouble making words?”

“Can still...get my point across…”

“Tell me.”

Oh, how she had wanted to tease him. But she couldn’t. Not with sincerity falling from his mouth into hers. “Love you...want you more than anything.”

He groaned.

The next moment she felt her climax coiling at her core, tightening around him. “Harder,” she managed to cry. Ever pleasure-loyal, he struck her true, breathing hard with his lips tucked in.

It felt good. It felt _damn_ good. But he kept his composure.

"Haurchefant," she said, arching her back so far she was nearly crooning into the headboard.

"Yes my love?" A loving sound, not a lusty one. Desire weighed his eyelids down. He squeezed her thigh with one hand, pinched a nipple with the other, drove himself deep and held the position long enough to feel the ebbing of her pleasure. The warmth of each pulse seduced him closer to climax, but what he really wanted was to please her time and time again—to hear his own name whittled down to something so delicate and small, something that could hardly balance at the tip of her tongue before dripping out like honey.

"Haurchefant," she said again, this time with her eyes open.

“Yes?” Whispered and severe.

“Give it to me.” She wrapped her legs around his waist and held.

“Yes,” he said, this time at her command. And it wasn’t long after that when he finished inside her, fulfilling a prophecy of her design. A knight of her church. Was this the tithe she would have chosen?

_

No longer feeling freshly showered, the Warrior waited in bed for Haurchefant to return with coffee. He’d done his best to clean her up before kissing her forehead and dressing himself in loose clothes to pick something up from the kitchen. A little bird at the window caught her attention. Its yellow eyes peered in like it was looking for something. She couldn’t help but smile at the creature, and thought she might chance a closer look.

She slipped her legs off the bed and stretched her arms high. Haurchefant was coming up the stairs and she didn’t want him to scare the creature off. She tiptoed over to the door and cracked it open with a warning finger at her lips. He cocked his head and entered the room again with caution, two warm cups in his hands.

“Look,” she said, pointing at the window. “Stay quiet so I can get closer.”

“Happily,” he said. But no sooner than her third step did he issue a poorly stifled laugh. The bird went flying with a whistle.

“What!” She clenched her fists and turned around accusingly.

“Forgive me,” he said, setting the cups on the nightstand and leaning on the bed to catch his breath. “Your gait is...most unsteady, you see.”

She blushed. It wasn’t the answer she had expected. Crossing her arms, she pouted. “Well thankfully the only straight line I must walk is the one that leads to you.”

“Nay, not even that.” Beaming, he kneeled before her. “For I shall ever be here to carry you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SWAY, GET IT?


	4. Three: Muster - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt Three: Muster**  
>  Explicit. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. The Crystal Exarch appears in a dream so realistic, the Warrior of Darkness swears he can taste it...or perhaps he can. Pre-reveal tomfoolery with mild angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason Bas'ir Bahani is a Keeper.

Bas'ir had fallen asleep with his prosthetic on, and now he couldn't discern reality from dreams. Wide eyed, he stared at the ceiling of his gifted room at the Pendants and tried to force himself to _count_ (something, anything, knots or cracks or decorative carvings) instead of _recount_.

He clenched his sheets with both hands. He had fallen asleep with his prosthetic, despite how much it always troubled him by means of aches or awakeness. He had slept easily. Truly. Through the night. Whatever he dreamt of didn't have a clear color, if he had dreamt at all. But that was part of the problem. _Had_ he dreamt? Or was it real, what had happened?

He had fallen asleep with his prosthetic. Usually this behavior invited insomnia or nightmares. What he had experienced was neither. Could it have been...the truth?

With a deep breath out, he ran his hand of flesh across his neck and felt the dancing blood of his body. _It_ remembered the night just as well as he. Cautiously, he trailed his tongue across his fangs, half expecting to taste what he was _certain_ he had tasted—that hand, that sweat, that man.

The Crystal Exarch.

Bas'ir gulped. Last night, he had hobbled his way up to his room with a pain in his body and a blistering brain. The burning light inside muted his perception of time, but if he had the right of it, he had dozed for perhaps half a bell. And then came the knock. _I can answer_ , he had thought, wilting left and right on his way to the door. _I can make it._ But he couldn't. After he collapsed, he saw the wood part and give way to hurried sandals, helping hands. But he couldn't keep his eyes open for long.

The Exarch must have carried him to bed. An amusing notion, but one that made a certain degree of sense. The parts Bas'ir was having trouble swallowing came later.

The Warrior rolled around in bed and squeezed his left arm—what remained of it—and weighed whether to disconnect his mechanical parts now that he was awake. Perhaps it would help him remember. He was ashamed to recognize what remembering was doing to his body already. Making him hot. Making him hard.

If it wasn't real, what did that say about his feelings for the man who had summoned him? A man he wanted to despise?

With a huff, he sat up and leaned against the wall. This is how he'd risen in the early morning hours, wearing exactly as little as he wore now: a long white tunic and modest smallclothes. Even through bleary eyes, he had spotted the Exarch slumped over the table with his hands clasped together. A great burden seemed to pull the man closer to the ground. "Exarch," Bas'ir had called, voice hoarse. "...Exarch."

The second time, he stirred and looked both ways before settling on the Warrior. He stood and smoothed his robes with a stiff sweep of his arms, then ambled over. "Forgive me," he said, reaching the bed. One hand reached out as though he meant to smooth the covers and sit by the Keeper’s side, but he recoiled. Too close to a fire. "I couldn't bring myself to leave you. When I heard you fall, I—"

"Why," Bas'ir said, "were you here?" He felt like he had run a hundred malms in his slumber.

Hood or no, the Exarch looked guilty with his fingers coiled together. "Your fellow Scions led me to believe...the light had compromised your health. My intentions were only to—"

Bas'ir coughed into his lap, then into his elbow. "Water," he said with a half-hearted gesture to the kitchenette. The Exarch dutifully followed. Flowing liquid made the Warrior’s ears prick to the side, but he kept his head down, brought a knee up and leaned on it. He didn’t really feel pain anymore. Just _exhaustion_. He wasn’t sure he could hold a glass on his own, despite the fact that that’s exactly what he was going to have to do.

“Here.”

A leader’s voice bade him raise his head. He managed to raise his eyelids.

The Exarch was a silhouette, figuratively and literally. Something shrouded in shadow. “Do you...require assistance?”

“No.” Bas’ir scrunched his nose and reached for the glass with his right arm. Bringing it to his chest was hard enough, so he enlisted his left to hold it steady. _Gods_ the water was good. Cool and brimming with vitality and streaming down his chin and onto his chest and—

“Ah—”

The Exarch clasped his hands around Bas’ir’s, around the glass. Crystal on metal, flesh on flesh. Perhaps hoping to catch some of what the Warrior had already spilled—surely that was the intent—a stray finger landed at the corner of the Keeper’s lips and lingered.

“My…” _Apologies_ should have come from the Exarch’s mouth next, but it didn’t. “Bas’ir.”

A breathy sound caught in the Warrior’s throat. At this point he started wondering about dreams and wakefulness and hallucinations, about light and love and loss. The glass’s gradual motion away from his lips felt as natural as the Exarch’s left hand exploring his face with strange commitment. _Of course_ the glass ended up snugly between his thighs. _Of course_ the Exarch’s thumb was cheating at his teeth. _Of course_ he opened his mouth wider to let the stranger in.

Neither man said anything. But Bas’ir wanted to. He wanted, in those hazy moments, for the Exarch to do more than trace his fangs and test his tongue. He wanted lots of things—answers, firstly, but he wouldn’t have complained if the Exarch slipped that crystal arm beneath the hem of his shirt and tested something there as well. He wanted to know how hot the Exarch’s body was under those robes, and more than anything he wanted to know the face that glared beneath. To know if it tasted the same as it used to or if someone else had tainted it.

Or maybe he didn’t want to know.

Regardless, he was hard and red-faced. Vulnerable in a way he hadn’t been in ages. Nothing bound him, but he may as well have had his hands tied. Was he a fool for reading this as sexual? Was there some other explanation for the Exarch’s willingness to wet his fingers? Bas’ir would have to rely on his powers of observation. Determined, he peered up at the shadow-man, fighting his lusty eyelids. He saw no smile, no flush, no hints whatsoever—not until the Exarch’s lips parted.

“Do you…” he said, softly, “...bite?”

If it really were a dream, Bas’ir would need to thank his subconscious later. Those lusty lids came down now, along with his teeth. He rolled his head in time with the bite, sliding the fangs he’d once hated against fingers he wanted to hate. The Exarch gasped, then groaned, then leaned closer...spilling the water onto the Warrior’s lap.

“Ah!”

“Shhhhite!”

They separated without thinking about it. Bas’ir, still reeling from the rush of coolness soaking his bed, squinted and wondered if they’d ever again come together.

“I can retrieve fresh sheets,” the Exarch said.

“No...no matter.” Bas’ir edged away from the puddle. “There’s room enough for several men my size to sleep here, dodging damp spots…”

He set his jaw. “I’m sure there’s a full set of linens on hand.”

“Exarch.” He was hunched over like some territorial beast all of a sudden. “I would really rather lie down this very moment.”

The Tower’s Keeper swayed left and right, like each side represented his fight to suppress a caretaker’s instincts. But eventually he clasped his hands together and bowed his head. “Very well.”

As soon as he was gone, Bas’ir curled up and deflated. Yes, he wanted to touch himself. He could admit that much. But that activity, he decided, was best left for the morning when he could better read reality. And so he found himself with his back flat against the wall, neck craning, right hand drawing forth that long delayed orgasm. He could feel it in his toes, in his tail. It hadn't taken long. The fantasy was too powerful, too particular. He came harder than he had in moons, and had to stop himself from giving it another go before rising for the day in earnest. All from a memory, or a dream.

As for which had borne his inspiration, he could not be certain. Not without asking. Whether it would take strength or weakness to work up the will, he wasn't sure. So far the only thing he’d mustered was lust.

Later that morning, he and the Scions gathered in the Ocular to assess their latest strategies. The Exarch behaved exactly as he always had. No signs of indiscretion or embarrassment. The truth, then, _bored_ Bas’ir, and though he was invested in his fight for the First, he couldn’t help but pace the room with crossed arms and knitted brows. It was coincidence that he happened to glance at the Exarch, gesturing mid-sentence. Bas'ir could have sworn he saw a tiny pink slit on the man’s left index finger. But perhaps it was a trick of the light, or a trick of the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea what to do with this prompt, but when I couldn't sleep I wrote this sentence in my notes:
> 
> "Whether it would take strength or weakness to work up the will, he wasn't sure."
> 
> When I woke up, I couldn't remember what the fuck I was talking about so I just assumed it was this.
> 
> Also writing last lines made me feel like Othello.


	5. Four: Clinch - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt Four: Clinch**  
>  Teen. Male specific WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. Aymeric tries to figure out why he and the Warrior of Light can never fall asleep at the same time. Figuratively? Literally? Yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clinch because secure.
> 
> IT DOESN'T MATTER IF IT IS LOOSE! I AM WRITING WORDS!!

"If I ever get married, I think I'd like to wear a gown."

Bas'ir liked to talk and Aymeric liked to listen

"The ugliest gown you've ever seen. Like an overgrown bird. Do you know the kind?"

The Lord Speaker had a balcony worth boasting about; it offered a picturesque view of white peaks, gray mountains sprinkled with green, and a fog that swirled like steam over dinner. But it was always "too cold" and the night "far too windy," so instead Aymeric moved his coziest armchair to the window, drew the curtains back, and draped his favorite Miqo'te—one of his favorite people—across his lap.

"I'd like to be a real bastard of a bride," Bas'ir said, always animated. His right arm pulled double duty when it came to gesticulating, and despite the fact that he was essentially being cradled by a much larger man, he managed to express himself just fine without tumbling onto the floor. "And no one can stop me because I'm the _Warrior of Light_...or what have you."

Aymeric chuckled and rubbed the man's ribs. “Where have you set your sights? A bastardly bride, or a bridely bastard?”

Bas’ir’s head dropped to the armrest but he kept his tricky eyes open. “Brideliness is in the eye of the beholder, so I’ve heard.”

“Is that what you’ve heard?” Aymeric tilted his head but kept his gaze static. “And more importantly, are you asking me to behold you?”

The Keeper started but closed his mouth and looked away. “W-well...you are already _holding_ me…”

The chair creaked as Aymeric leaned over. Their foreheads were a few ilms apart. “Forgive me, you’ll have to speak louder.”

“I shall _not!_ ” Bas’ir said, much louder. Without his prosthetic, he couldn’t really cross his arms, but his pout carried the weight of a body’s worth of bashfulness. They stayed like that for a while, before Bas’ir thwapped his tail on Aymeric’s thigh. A sign of goodwill, if anything, and so was the backwards bunt he delivered upon drawing back toward the Elezen’s chest. “Do you know the manner of dress?"”

“Perhaps.” If Bas’ir hadn’t been reclining on both of Aymeric’s arms, he would have liked to stroke that hair, long, dark, and sleek. So unlike Estinien’s, he noticed for the first time. One of the many things that separated them. “Personally, I believe there are few garments your presence in which would not improve.”

“And here I thought you preferred looking at me naked…”

“There’s a time and place for everything.” Aymeric settled back into the chair and searched for starlight through the glass. A candle burning in the reflection kept drawing his eye, small though it was. It would flicker until he put it out, and so would his many, quiet questions about their future.

Bas’ir yawned. “I think if I ever married, I would wear my ring around my neck.”

“Around your _neck?_ ”

“On a necklace.” He craned back like a curious cat. “After all, I’ve demonstrated how easily one can misplace an arm. I figure if you’ve lost your neck, you’ve more formidable problems on your hands. Or...chest, or whatever you've got left...”

“I suppose that’s fair…”

After a long time, Bas’ir’s slow breaths turned into tiny snores. Aymeric knew how to carry him without waking him and earning his ire, but he stayed there anyway, pondering his life with stars in his eyes and a man in his arms. Everything wonderful about the Warrior left a strange aftertaste in his mouth. But at least now he knew one thing: he would never have to ask his ring size.


	6. Five: Matter of Fact - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Five: Matter of Fact**  
>  Explicit. Ambiguous male WoL. Second person. G'raha Tia's tries to wash out the taste of secrets in his mouth with something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHORT! I have to BREATHE for a moment

As a matter of fact, G'raha Tia has decided he loves you. But that's not going to stop him from entering the Tower and staying there for a damn long time. He doesn’t mean to dwell on the truth in what will be your last intimate moments together, but he has always had a tendency toward obsession.

Little by little, he brings you closer to climax. This is the slowest he has ever gone, and the most eye contact he's ever kept during this particular act of pleasure. Your dick in his mouth—his hands shuffling beneath his belt—not inherently an unusual arrangement, not at that time nor place. Night. The Find. Your shared tent, lightless. But the historian suspects you can somehow tell lust isn’t the only weight in his Allagan eyes.

_I can take care of that._

_No. I insist you focus on your own pleasure. Tonight, mine is secondary._

So he's taking it slowly. He isn't sure how many more times he'll get to do this. When he rises, however many years in the future, will he play the type of role in which one can reasonably coat a cock in spit? Somehow, he thinks not. This thought, along with your length, makes him wince when he takes you all the way in.

Your fingers tighten on your cot. He's training his ears on your chest, your throat. Whatever sounds come out, he will need to remember. These little secrets of history, he thinks, are his to cherish. The tiny, quiet parts of you that will survive through him into the future, alongside your deeds. He presses his tongue flat against your head and blushes, knowing the world will know what you accomplished. He, and perhaps no other living soul, will know who you were and what you tasted like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might pick this up later, it was very easy to write in this way


	7. Six: Free Day - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Six: Free Day**  
>  Explicit. Ambiguous female WoL. Explicit. G'raha Tia has an _intense_ reaction to something he saw wading in the waters of Mor Dhona: a topless Warrior of Light.

He hadn’t meant to look.

Really. He hadn’t.

But he had.

_What in Seven Hells am I doing?_

Literally, he knew the answer quite well. He was touching himself, and with an embarrassing enthusiasm, too. After what he’d seen, it was hard to make it past that first stroke without exploding. If he’d bumped into the right kind of waist-level fixture on his way to his tent, he’d probably have burst right then and there, in front of the gods and everyone.

Somehow, he managed to get his dick out without coming undone, and then he sat on his cot sweating from embarrassment, panting from exertion. Coming would make things both better and worse. Better—this orgasm would surely teach him something about the nature of the divine. Worse—he might have to lower his eyes each time the Warrior of Light arrived thenceforth.

Surely he was being dramatic. Surely it wasn’t so bad. The weak-willed teenager he’d long ago buried now egged him on. _It’s okay_ to think about her naked breasts. _It’s okay_ to imagine the texture of her nipples beneath your hands, to imagine what sounds she’d make if you pinched one, licked one. In fact, _it’s more than okay._

The corner of his lip curled up when he thought of how ridiculous he must look. Hunched over, trousers at his knees. Beating himself like an animal. Another voice told him not to worry. _She will never know_. But that almost made it worse. After all, if he had his way she would know _everything_ about him; he wanted to make sure the truth he could offer was a noble one—not one that watched from the shadows, fucking his own hand.

A sudden clarity dawned on him like a summer breeze on sweat. _I’m fine,_ he thought in a voice he finally recognized as his own. _I am an adult. She is an adult. Things happen. An accident. And now...the consequence._ With his right hand, he fiddled with his collar and straightened his back. As he worked each button undone, he reclined deeper until finally his chest was bare and he was staring at the weathered roof of his tent. At least, he was until he closed his eyes to remember.

Now for the final throes, then.The sun must’ve been in her eyes when he came upon her bathing in the lake, for she gave no reaction. Had he stumbled upon some secluded shore? Missed a sign? And most importantly, was he really locking eyes with the finest pair of tits he’d ever seen? He was close enough to see droplets of water on her chest. Now, he imagined his own seed coloring her instead. He could straddle her torso and have his length held between her blushing, bouncing breasts. She could lap at his tip and tell him she was thirsty.

He whipped his tail and pressed his face into his shoulder. Soon to finish, he pressured his inner thigh with one hand, stroked with the other. It wasn’t long before he was flexing his ankles in anticipation. When he finally came, he lifted his hips off the bed and forgot what shame looked like for a few hot beats.

Of course, it would’ve been nice to come on someone else’s chest instead of his own.

Bells later, he confessed. Not to his frenzied reaction, but to his original sin: happening upon what he assumed was a private moment. They sat alone at a campfire. He considered it a good sign that neither the flames nor his inner dialogue had started melting him down.

“You are a card,” the Warrior said after taking an ambitious bite of her apple. “Do you actually believe I’d be wading in the water with my top off if I gave a damn about who’s watching?”

“Ha…” He was trying to act calm, to keep his hands from wringing and wringing. He’d lost his silver tongue at Silvertear. “Regardless, I couldn’t help but feel strange for having secreted myself away.”

“Were you embarrassed?”

A weight on his neck. His eyes flickered over to meet her glowing gaze, and suddenly his own voice tasted like honey. A brave transition. “Have I reason to be embarrassed?”

She swallowed with a half-grin. “Well the truth is, G’raha...maybe I _do_ give a damn about who’s watching.”

“O-oh?” He couldn’t look away. Nor did he want to.

Keeping her legs crossed, she leaned closer ilm by ilm. Firelight shined on her teeth, made her sweat-shine dance. Just when he thought she would reach out and touch him, she spoke. “I’ll let your imagination take care of the rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh I said this was going to hit all the three main Lefane hallmarks, but I actually don't think there was enough sadness. Ah well, 2/3 is good.


	8. Seven: Nonagenerian - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Seven: Nonagenarian**  
>  Teen. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. Ishgardian vampires. Okay? That's it. That's the entry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BECAUSE VAMPIRES LIVE LONG TIME OkAY

The halls of Fortemps Manor were empty. Or so Bas’ir thought.

A wooden creak pulled his eyes from the page. _A Rhapsody in Blood_ , the book’s name. Absolute garbage, which is why he normally only picked up pulp of its ilk in his private quarters. Sometimes he found himself trying to secret them away from even his roommate, though the other man knew full well that Bas’ir’s taste in reading materials was quite high when high, and very low when low.

Today, though, not even Edmont was in. And that lace-ladled couch was so cozy—the fireplace so inviting, and much kinder to his shivering bones than the brisk air that filtered from the window in his room. Blankets could only do so much. Besides, reading was even more uncomfortable without his left arm, so why not live like a lord this morning? Well, a lord with very specific taste.

The creak must have been his imagination. Back to the tawdry tale. _Mathilde’s long lashes fluttered down with an alluring shamefulness as the priest stalked closer, chin held high. If the tales were true, he could hear her blood coursing through her veins and coloring her formidable breasts a pleasant pink. Would the flavor please him? Sustain his need? How many years had he spent watching her, tiny hands clasped in prayer, from the shadows? As many as she had spent lusting after him in private? Now want contorted his youthful face into something demonic. The moment she saw his fangs, glistening in candlelight, she knew she was destined for a fate most unholy…_

Footsteps in the manor. Bas’ir threw the book and sat up straight. He whipped his head and tail side to side trying to place the sound. When a looming figure appeared in the doorway, he shrieked...and immediately tried to disguise the pitiful noise as a sneeze.

“Forgive me, Master Bahani,” the servant said, bowing. “I’ve come to tend the fire...unless…”

“By all means,” Bas’ir said, gesturing with his palm flat. That was all the direct contact he could deal with after his display, so he leaned over and set about rubbing his forehead like he was weighing something immense, or perhaps in great pain. Well, he _was_ in great pain, for having embarrassed himself, but until the Elezen was done with his business there would be no relief. After a litany of cracks and pops and prodding, the servant finally finished and offered a bow (unseen, unnoticed) before receding once more into the hallway.

Bas’ir deflated. _Right. Rich people._ He retrieved his _literature_ and leaned back onto the couch with his legs crossed.

“Have you ever encountered an Elezen with fangs?”

A voice in his ear. He spun around and jumped onto the coffee table. That put him roughly at eye level with Haurchefant, who had somehow materialized behind the sofa. “You!” Bas’ir said, pointing.

“Me?”

“Camp Dragonhead. You were there. Your briefing.”

Haurchefant was unphased. “Yes. And now I’ve returned.”

Bas’ir crumpled into a lopsided glare. It just _had_ to be Haurchefant. “I suppose I will be making my way back to my quarters, in that case.”

“Oh?” He circled around the end table. “But there is aught we might discuss in private.”

Tail twisting, Bas’ir stepped down from the table and eyed the floor for his book. “Hmph. Aught we might discuss in private.”

“Certainly.” He sat himself down on the couch and crossed his long legs with a testy look of confidence.

“Some kind of ‘private’ with servants traipsing around the house, like…” A hunk of wood cracked in the fire. “How long were you standing there?”

The warmth of his chuckle mimicked the flames. “I’ll keep your secret. Perhaps offer one of my own in return, should it soothe you.”

At first, Bas’ir didn’t _want_ to know, but for the first time _ever_ he had sniffed out something less than sincere on the bastard’s breath. Curiosity killed the Miqo’te. Bookless, he fell back onto the couch. “I hope it’s pitiful.”

“Hmm...perhaps a pity. But not pitiful.” As though he’d always had it, he lifted _A Rhapsody in Blood_ and waved it around. “You ought to begin with my initial question.”

“Your initial question.”

“Have you ever encountered an Elezen with fangs?”

His tail went limp. Next time, he would continue his self-imposed quarantine and double up on blankets instead of venturing out into the house. Fire be damned. “I do not appreciate being teased.”

“I’m not teasing.” He shifted closer to the smaller man. “‘Tis an honest question. Give me your hand.”

Between his eyebrows and his twisted lips, Bas’ir painted a portrait of disdain someone ought to capture and print in a dictionary. Regardless, he relented and offered his wrist.

“I ask again,” Haurchefant said. “An Elezen with fangs. Have you ever met one?”

“No. Of course I haven’t.”

This was, apparently, the answer he had been waiting for. He tightened his grip and erupted with laughter. The sound grated against Bas’ir’s ears, which shot back like bullets. Just when he was about to wrest his hand away and storm back upstairs, Haurchefant lowered his head with a hiss. There, where ordinary teeth had been just moments ago, was a pair of shiny fangs peeking out from a manic smile.

“That’s because,” Haurchefant whispered, “we’re very good at hiding them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to do more but I kept getting distracted from writing this at work, by work.


	9. Eight: Clamor - M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt Eight: Clamor**  
>  Mature. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. A study in dreams. Aymeric is involved. G'raha Tia is involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't smut but there is a sexual scene described briefly with er...humorous overtones. Because it's dReAm StUfF there are also mentions of character deaths, but nothing is graphically depicted.

In Bas'ir's dreams, he has two arms. Always. And they're both made of flesh. Even in dreams where he loses his left _again_ , it's more of a symbolic third, to which he reaches out with two fully human hands, as if the retrieving of it in slumber would somehow return it to the waking world.

After the final defeat of Nidhogg, Bas'ir dreams often of Aymeric. Aymeric appears in Gridania for a drink. Aymeric, smiling and calm, tells Bas'ir he needs to get a haircut. Aymeric takes another knife in the back and on his deathbed claws at Bas'ir's hand, asking _why have you done this_.

Aymeric asks Bas'ir to have his child.

"It...it shouldn't be possible, should it?" The Miqo'te asks with his back arched, his ass high.

Aymeric looms behind him full of hunger and certainty. "Anything is possible." He slips inside without lube—whoever dreams of using lube?—and comes the very next moment.

Bas'ir feels nothing but heat. Sweating in his sleep? "I don't think I can get pregnant."

"I have faith," Aymeric says, retracting.

Bas'ir wakes from that one with deep wrinkles of confusion painted on his face.

When Bas'ir sees Florian in his sleep, it feels like the real Florian. Florian will point out he is dreaming, if he hasn't realized already, and save Bas'ir from whatever task his subconscious has put him to.

Bas'ir dreams that Rammbroes has asked him to find something called "merchant wasps" in the Shroud. As soon as Bas'ir starts clawing into the dirt of Bentbranch, Florian appears with his lance on his back and tired eyes. "Really?" he says. "You're digging in the dirt for merchant wasps?"

"Yes," Bas'ir says, waspless.

The Elezen sighs like one of Bas'ir's instructors from the Studium. "Do you even know what a merchant wasp is?"

Bas'ir wakes up pouting and searching for a great back to press his face against.

There are some people Bas'ir never sees in dreams. Nero, for one. This doesn't surprise Bas'ir in the slightest. Nero is perhaps the one person about whom Bas'ir has no lingering subconscious concerns. How could he? He puts all of his concerns on the table, complete with appetizers and dessert.

Bas'ir's mother avoids his dreams as well. He has seen her once or twice, but even in his imagination she looks very much like she doesn't want to be there. Whenever his father appears, he's trying to chase Bas'ir down. Not with hostility, but with sorrow. As in his waking hours, Bas'ir can hardly stand to look at him. He has dreamt of developing flight to avoid this weeping man. He has leapt from Camp Cloudtop to evade a hearty embrace.

Ah, you're probably wondering if he dreams of any friends from his scholarly days. Well, first you should know he wasn't exactly known for making friends. Several people could tolerate him, but certainly no one notable enough to follow him into his dreams. One man occasionally appears to chide him or to be present and oblivious in the same room, but they only have sex if Bas'ir goes to bed with his prosthetic on. This, he tries to avoid if at all possible. After all, Dream Aymeric seems to have more pressing needs than Dream Historian.

But when Bas'ir dreams of the day he lost his arm, the historian is always there. His presence is key in these dreams. The World of Darkness. The onslaught. The kiss of the burn and that final release. In his dreams, Bas'ir does not so much experience the memory but observe it. As he sleeps, he's allowed to have thoughts about what happens, thoughts he didn't have as it happened. As it happened, he was conscious for only a few minutes, but in the dreams he wins a supernatural look at what followed. The historian's decision to leave is easy, in these dreams. The exact emotive color changes with each iteration; sometimes he is happy and cruel, sometimes he is stoic. But he doesn't appear often. Bas'ir believes this is for the best.

Far more frequent are the dreams where he must try to retrieve his arm. The symbolic arm, the third one ambiguously separated from him in some metaphysical way. Sometimes he is at the top of a mountain with wind in his ears. Aymeric will be shouting from behind. "There's your arm! You must take this chance!" Bas'ir turns his head to the clouds and spots the arm flapping in the wind. As though Hydaelyn has summoned him again, he raises himself into the air and streams after it. He must have it. Having it will cure the disease. No matter that his dream-self has two fully functioning arms already. _This_ is the arm he wants. _This_ is the arm he needs. Whatever he lost that day, is this arm. He would kill to have it back. He'd cut off his tail. He'd cut off a leg. What wouldn't he give to live in a world where he didn't have to dance around an old friend's name or existence? This hole in his life was one he could never affix with metal. Never make functional again.

Curses on his lips, he clamors for the arm, frigid air wisping around him, but the arm gives like a stream of water. He can't hold it. He can't pull it toward his chest. He looks down to Aymeric for guidance, but no one is there. Not even his father. By the time he looks back, the arm is gone, and Bas'ir, wide-eyed and bloody, turns his face to the sun and falls and falls and falls until he hits the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Do Not Ask Me To Write Bas'ir Mpreg This Was A Joke


	10. Nine: Lush - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Nine: Lush**  
>  I'll call it explicit. Estinien/Aymeric is the focus here, though there is specific male WoL present. Florian Loudin. Let's just say those nights in Dravania and above get lonely...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/3 on brand points

The nightsong of the Churning Mists chimed so gently that the Warrior of Light woke up with his head in his lap. This was the first time Florian Loudin had ever fallen asleep during a watch. To make matters worse, something was lurking nearby. A fullness in the air. Patter on the grass. He may have nodded off, but years of training meant enemies would have to work much harder to go unnoticed. The Dragoon’s hand danced for his lance. When he found it, the metal was warm on his skin, having sat near the fire longer than intended.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he trod into darkness, guessing at the guest’s direction. The scent of embers gave way to potent earth, old and aging. _Gridania with altitude sickness_ , he thought, knowing he’d never have thought it if he weren’t mildly exhausted. At least he was going in the right direction. Something shuffled, something—someone?—chuffed or grunted.

Whatever it was, it made Florian tighten his grip and approach with a bend in his knees in preparation for post-nap exercise. Could be a bird. Could be a dragon.

What he _wasn't_ expecting to come upon was some of the most ungraceful masturbation he'd ever seen. Estinien, looking directly at him with mild surprise, then annoyance. Too late to do anything about it. He _had_ to finish now, and did so with his knees close to buckling beneath him. And it must have been _good_ , too. The kind of orgasm he had to keep stroking through, the kind he couldn't finish early, as though anything less than emptying himself would have done him in.

Florian turned around immediately and walked away, trying to ignore the wet sound of it all.

-

Estinien trudged back to camp. What could he say? How could he explain himself? Was he supposed to talk about Aymeric? How his face was too godsdamned beautiful, his lips too lush, his eyes so everywhere that their color followed him even into Dravania and beyond? Of course, Estinien wasn't going to blame anyone for his actions. Not the icy sky, not the blue bioluminescent flowers looming in the grass, and certainly not his own restless dreams.

He slept much better in the company of his comrade, even when they didn't do much sleeping at all. Aymeric's honey scent sweeping over him like a spiritual blanket, Aymeric's nagging arousal pressed on Estinien's backside. The diplomat knew how to ask for just what he wanted, in true fashion never expecting to receive without giving something in return.

Estinien was trying to come to terms with the fact that he would give much with no expectation of recompense.

"Better be glad it was not one of the others," Florian said when his fellow Azure Dragoon emerged from the shadows. He was polishing his lance by the fire, never looking up. Flame marks on his olive skin made his scowl even more scolding.

Estinien grumbled and started for his tent. No point explaining. Now he knew. He wasn't special. Anyone could do what he did, for any reason. The romantic musings stringing through his brain didn't change the fact that he'd put himself somewhere a _moogle_ could have seen him leaking onto the leaves.

 _Mortality_ , Estinien thought once he was staring at the breathing roof of his tent. _That's what's forced him to the forefront._ He didn't want to imagine a world deprived of Aymeric's presence, nor, he realized gritting his teeth, a world where Aymeric was not his to claim. 

Though perhaps that was the animal in him, dripping darkness onto his tongue. For a moment he couldn't help but savor the taste.


	11. Ten: Avail - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Ten: Avail**  
>  Teen. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. The Warrior of Light has to learn how to write again. Alphinaud wants to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt kinda kicked my ass, writing was very hard

The pen trembled and leaked ugly black scratches onto the page. Bas’ir cast his yellow eyes upon them, hoping they would blend into something comprehensible and stiff. Bad vision would have been a comfort. He could wear glasses, even if they irritated the bridge of his nose. A faulty right hand would not usually be such a puzzling problem either, but most people had one hand to spare.

Alphinaud had brought him the pen and paper. Risky business, he knew. The physical wound was fresh enough, but the emotional one kept bleeding through bandages. Whether this would help or hurt, the young Elezen wasn’t sure, but he was tired of letting a living man haunt the halls of the Rising Stones without trying _something_ to soothe his spirit.

“This is…” Bas’ir said, “the first time I have ever written with this hand.” He was sitting up in his bed using a breakfast tray as a writing space, sharing it with a half empty glass of orange juice. Whenever he got stuck on a letter, he would take a slow sip and grimace like salt water, not citrus, had slipped down his throat . From the side, you may have missed his missing arm and assumed something else confined him.

Alphinaud sat on the far side of the room with his hands crossed over his legs, the whole time wondering if he should have pulled the chair closer. “Ambidexterity is an impressive trait,” he said. “And one I’m certain you shall most prodigiously develop. After all, you are the—”

“I will settle for _dexterity_. The prefix is no longer something for which I qualify.” Tongue cheating the corner of his lip, he rounded—scribbled—cut the corner of another mark. Pressed too hard. Ink pooled on the page. The Warrior gasped in frustration when the liquid stained his skin. “It’s awful. It’s awful, Alphinaud.” Like he was praying at an execution.

The youth locked his fingers. “W-well...with my own eyes I have seen you accomplish what was thought to be impossible.”

“Fighting for my life, yes.” The pen clicked to the tray and Bas’ir snarled. “Would that Hydaelyn’s blessing had protected my _left_ arm instead. Given me _something_ to celebrate. Anything…”

The words were so bitter, Alphinaud could taste it on his tongue. “May I...see what you’ve written? Though I’m only an amateur artist, there’s a possibility I have knowledge that may avail you in your journey. What’s more, I know several wrist exercises that might—”

“Here.” He shifted the paper to the edge of the tray and stared at something very, very far away.

Alphinaud approached. From a distance he could see the blotting ink. Only when he was close enough to lean over the page could he start to make out letter versus letter. An A or a G, to start. Then a messy T or gangly R. Then an A, this time with certainty. But Alphinaud didn’t want to read out loud and say the wrong thing, to wound this wounded creature. If he had some inkling of what Bas’ir was trying to write, perhaps he would have chanced it. But at first nothing came to mind.

And then he remembered his comrade was grieving not just for himself, but for another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmm I wonder when this happens? Thinking emoji


	12. Eleven: Ultracrepidarian - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Eleven: Ultracrepidarian**  
>  Explicit. Ambiguous second-person WoL and G'raha Tia. Late at night, when one touches on certain topics, one feels compelled to start touching other things, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WANTED THIS TO BE MUCH SHORTER
> 
> It got long and I didn't have time to edit it sOOOOOO expect messy
> 
> ...in more than one way

Night. The Find. The tent you share with G'raha Tia. You aren't sure why it's different, but it is. Blame the battle. Blame the boredom. Blame the built up tension he has been tiptoeing around since the first time you caught him staring at the back of your head. Now you're both staring at the gentle ripples in the roof and trying to name the sudden change in flavor, both pretending you have yet to taste it.

"Perhaps we should venture out," G'raha says. Like you, he's lying on his back with his hands clasped at his navel. Between his dinner and your arrival, he had time to trade his trousers for a dark pair of silky shorts. You've seen him sleep in them before. When he speaks, he cheats his head towards you. "Clearly we've yet to expend enough energy."

"I think not," you say. "The fact that I can carry a conversation belies my aching bones."

"Mm. Well I suppose I'll remain here as well, given that sparring is best done with a partner."

You roll onto your side and prop your head up. "Sparring? You?"

"What!"

"With your _bow_ , I presume?"

He shifts his hands behind his head, laughing. Buying time. Unbeknownst to you, he’s daydreamed of taking you on many times, toying with steel and finding you hard in the bind, slipping under for a counterattack—a compelling argument for swordsmanship. The outcome of the skirmish doesn’t matter. It’s the intimacy that makes his head rush. "Make no mistake—I can be flexible."

You scoff in good humor. "Yes. A man of many talents."

"Many!"

"And going to bed on time is not one of them."

A calloused finger points. “This I will admit,” G'raha says, snapping up from his cot. “But I assure you I’m no stranger to combat.”

Your rise is slow and confident. No need to rush. You're the godsdamned Warrior of Light. “And I’m sure you have the scars to prove it?”

The finger curls back down in line with its neighbors. The corners of his _lips_ curl _up_. “Well, as I’m sure you can imagine, Warrior, by the time you are ready to take blows that would scar you, you are practiced enough to weave away.” Driving home the point, he closes his eyes and points his chin to a high corner. “This is, of course, why all mercenaries and adventurers worth their salt have clear skin.”

You chuckle and lean back. “Like yours? You must be one of the finest.”

It’s a joke, but it still pulls his eyes, full of fondness, to the ground. G’raha knows he’s easy to read. Easy to please. Easy for you, which makes the strange night harder. When you speak by the campfire, the crackling wood harbors his secret purrs. Now, with camp quiet and no fire in sight, he works harder to mute it. Even as he tempers the swishing of his russet tail, he hopes you’ve accepted him as a friend at best, a fan at worst. _Not_ a romantic admirer.

You aren’t sure what to think of him, but you don’t mind looking at his long eyelashes while his head is down. Time to take a chance. “Would you like to see mine?” you say.

Blinking, he lifts his gaze. “See your…?”

“My scar. The worst one.” You’re already itching at your collar.

Can you tell it’s driving him mad? Caught between two or ten answers, he stiffens like a man in a photograph. Tail reanimates first, body follows. “Beg pardon?”

“I’m happy to show you. There’s a story behind it, after all…”

He clears his throat. “If this is some manner of secret, there’s no need to spoil it on my behalf.”

“No secret. Just a story and a scar.” You stand and stretch long enough for him to chew on it. After a hearty sigh, you lock eyes again. “So what do you say?”

-

The scar is on your chest. G’raha gulps when he realizes you’re removing each layer that separates the jagged line from the elements. Once or twice he’s seen you bare, but not this close. Not this specifically.

He listens while you tell the story, but he _looks_ just as carefully. Maybe, he hopes, you’ll recognize his expression as the same one he wears before Allagan relics. Not something hungrier. If you’re embarrassed to have him gawking at the history on your chest, your voice never falters. The night is warm enough that he’ll be forgiven for glowing. The dip in his gaze will be missed in the darkness. His open-mouthed attempts to taste you like a snake will be unfruitful, unnoticed.

He wishes he could touch you. He wishes it so badly that he cannot speak, not even when you’ve finished your story.

“That bad, huh?” Your leg bounces at a casual tempo. “Too much detail?”

“No,” he says, rocking back. “No. Forgive me, I...perhaps my jest was in poor taste.”

“Nah.” A lazy yawn. The day has taken its toll, finally. “You got any?”

His voice is soft and mossy. The heat must be pooling at the top of the tent. “I’m afraid my stories pale in comparison to yours.”

“And your scars?”

“Well…” He rubs his back. “Though its origin betrays my own humble, adventurous beginnings—”

“Show me.”

“...very well.” His smile can’t stand on its own legs. Rising, he turns his back to you and removes his shirt like it needs to stay sterile. You can’t see his face, and he’s thankful for that. He’s walking into an icy pool of water, testing it with his toes and holding his tail high. At least he can anchor himself in finding the scar. He fingers to the left of his spine before finding the ridges. “I fell out of a tree as a child.”

“I can’t see it.”

“Here.”

“Move your hand.”

He does, then startles when your finger replaces his own. The scar is about the length of your index finger, but it must’ve been deep. Stitch marks knitted the ghost of the wound together.

G’raha clears his throat. “It...may not have been as serious as I remember.”

“A scar’s a scar,” you say, taking one last look at the mark before turning your attention to his bare back. Freckles dot his shoulders. “Falling out of a tree isn’t half as embarrassing as the time I split my lip.” You lean back on your cot and smile at the muscled scholar before you. You wonder how he's put those muscles to use.

He turns over his shoulder at your withdrawal sits back down, bundling his shirt in his hands. “Have you come to terms with it?”

“Yes. I fell off a bed after a night of bad decisions.”

“Ah yes. The drink.”

“Nope. What comes _after_ the drink and normally takes two.”

“Oh,” he says. _Oh no_ , he thinks. Thankfully, you have busied yourself with blankets. It gives him enough time to wipe the dark curiosity from his face and recognize that perhaps he, too, should settle into bed. As he does, his imagination also settles— into a reality where _he’s_ the bad decision that gets to press his lips to your scars, to kiss your collarbones and figure out how hard he has to pinch your nipples to make you gasp.

You don’t think twice about G’raha turning his back to you. He could be doing it for any reason.

You fill the air with a mighty yawn befitting the Warrior of Light. “In any case, that’s not the only reason I’ve tried to cut back on random nights of pleasure.”

Just a few fulms away, his voice is whisperous and hot. Delayed. A mysterious echo that filters from a forgotten cave. “I should hope that successful heroes not doom themselves to lives of repression.”

You laugh. "What do you know about repression?"

"Plenty." He’s tracing the outline of his cock, begging that by the time he raises his head, you have turned away. So much has leaked already. He’s embarrassed at how badly he wants to join the ranks of those privileged enough to say they’ve been inside of you.

“You’re not a virgin, are you?”

“No! No, no.” He twitches in his shorts, his fingers just beneath the band. “I had several...study partners at the Isle of Val.” _None of them as bewitching as you._ “One of my first went on to ‘study’ in Ul’dah. As it happens, the scholarly life was not for them.”

“Ah. Exploring a professional career in...studying?”

“Yes. Although personally I considered the experience a bit amateur.” _Yes,_ he thinks. _Focus on that instead of foolish fantasies._ No point in imagining how tight your body would hold him, whether you would squeeze. Too bad you have already offered him fruit he cannot help but bite. “Your first time, then. Was it good?”

“It was fine. He was gentle.”

 _I could be gentle._ “That's...good.”

“It wasn't good. It was fine.” The memory sparks no particular warmth or fondness. "Gentleness isn't necessarily what I look for anymore.”

“What is? Experience?”

“Trust. Trust that I can handle it. Trust that when I say I can't, I can't.”

He swallows. Thumb finds head, fingers find shaft. Tongue finds temptation. “That makes sense. So...you prefer something rougher?” _Because I could be rough, too._ He’s hardly moving his hand, but it feels so good he knows he’ll keep going even if you stand up and start watching.

“Depends on the partner. And you?”

He stops stroking, winces, holds himself tight. _Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think about it._ "I've done a little bit of this, a little bit of that."

"And what would you be doing if you had your way?"

_You._

Clenched teeth keep the truth from spilling from his thick lips. What keeps _him_ from spilling, he isn’t sure. Your presence, your scent, your voice—tugging his hand in both directions. It was supposed to be a gentle touch. Now he’s concentrating on keeping his cot stable. Can you smell him? Can you hear him? Do you know he’s imagining the texture of your scar beneath his palm? What good leverage it could offer. He could hold you there and fill you—first with his cock, then with his seed—rock _you_ instead of his bed—sink inside and sing.

“G’raha?”

“Ah.” He opens his eyes and stretches his legs. Maybe it will disguise any strange motion you’ve noticed. “I’m sorry, I must have started drifting off.”

"I see..." You eye him once more before turning on your side. "Perhaps it's for the best. My mind is catching up with my body, I think..."

"Goodnight, my friend."

"Goodnight G'raha Tia."

-

He waits. He waits and waits and waits but does not soften. He spends what _feels_ like half a bell trying to keep himself from imagining a world where he can mount you, slick you freely. Spends half a bell failing and reaching again for his erection. By the time he's holding his breath for release, he's pumping himself so madly he doesn't care if passersby can hear him from outside. He isn't thinking of the sleeping body at his side, but the heaving chest in his visions, the ebbing weight around his cock, and finally—finally, when he stops spurting into his open palm, he remembers where he is and what he is supposed to be doing.

_Not. This._

Surprised he let himself take things so far, he rushes up in a frenzy and stares at the cot. Empty, he is. His brain is empty. For an instant the pain in his eye is completely silent. It's the memory of you—the real you, snoring lightly at his back—that sets him back on the ground where he has more than a few problems to address before the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY
> 
> NIPS  
> JACKING OFF  
> SADNESS
> 
> THE SEXARCH TRIFECTA


	13. Twelve: Tooth and Nail - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Twelve: Tooth and Nail**  
>  Explicit. Ambiguous second-person WoL. Pre-reveal Shadowbringers. The Warrior's questions about the Exarch burn like memories of a place where two once shared warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vice Mayor of Rahaington Today at 1:02 PM  
> Man I have the energy to write  
> But I do not have the energy to stop lounging by the space heater  
> ...I bet the Allagans had space heaters...  
> Oh yeah this is going in for sure
> 
> Really hastily written because I had to work all day

The fact that the Crystal Exarch lets you roam the Tower proves nothing. You will only find what he wants you to find. Not what you are looking for.

What you are looking for is evidence of _him_. The Exarch’s smile tells you you won’t find it.

Should’ve carved your initials in the base like young fools in Gridania. Should’ve slipped a chunk of crystal in your pocket and snuck it out of Mor Dhona. Should’ve hidden a calling card, like the one the Exarch used to reel you to his world. But in days long past, you were too love-blind to act on paranoia, even paranoia that would one day bear fruit.

G’raha Tia is someone your comrades have warned you about missing. As long as they think your stroll throughout the Tower is a leisurely one, they’ll never suspect you’re still looking over your shoulder into bittersweet history, hoping to pull a piece of it into the present.

Your footsteps round the corner ahead of you. The halls are royal red and deep. This is where a slamming door took a few hairs off G’raha’s tail mid-sentence. “The architecture here suggests—”

You laughed then. Heaving the same great barrier, you cannot laugh now. When the door shuts behind you this time, you are ready for it. By the light of your magic, ancient papers dance with its wind. Once, this room glowed on its own. Now you strain your eyes looking for what’s left of the system that ran soft blue lights around the ceiling. There are no golden accents here, no humming hues. This section of the Tower, in this time, on this star, has been left to rot. You cannot help but wonder if your memories of warmth have doomed it. Crossing the tiled floor, you find the center of the room. Before you can accept its emptiness, you have to run your fingers through the dust. A cold and lifeless spot. In your memory, it brims with power.

G’raha had no trouble activating the strange device. It was round and robotic and unlike anything you’d seen outside the tower, a mess of metal and illegible interlocking rings. The scholar somehow read it like a book. “Look,” he said, holding out his palms. “It should be...yes! Quite warm, isn’t it?”

The ribs started glowing like the rest of the Tower. “Warm?”

“Yes, warm! It’s a warming device.” He took your hand and held it closer to the false fire.

It _was_ warm. The light in his eyes—recognizing your recognition—was warmer. “For what purpose…?” you asked. “There must surely be more efficient ways to heat a superstructure.”

“Perhaps more efficient.” He let your hand hover without his to hold it. “But _you_ certainly seem keen on joining me by the fire, even on a summer’s night.”

“Maybe I just like to watch the flames.”

With a smug look on his face, he puts his weight on one leg and leans. “Certainly nothing to do with _my presence_ , then.”

Before you could breathe more life into the banter, footsteps in the hall dried up your attention span. When you rose to check the door, G’raha followed closely and grabbed you by the waist. Wiggling, you can't help but admire his sturdy grip. “What are you doing?”

“Stay quiet.” he said.

“Could be creatures.”

It wasn’t creatures. It was Cid, calling your name, calling G’raha. You opened your mouth, and fingers closed around it.

“Shh…” His other hand honed in on the hem of your shirt, tugging once before exploring the skin beneath.

The light touch tickled. “What’s gotten into you? Could be urgent.”

His index grazed the inside of your lower lip. “Does it sound urgent?”

You trained your ears on the scientist’s approach. Slow footsteps, confident footsteps. A steady voice, as ever. No, you thought. Not urgent. Certainly not as urgent as the implanted plan taking root on your tongue, begging to be swallowed.

Still clothed, he mounted you by the heater and set about sucking the tender skin of your neck. He was hard, had been for a while, and he started grinding like he needed to prove it. “Is this place not sacred?” you said, spreading for him.

“Oh it is.” He sat up and slipped his neck piece off, then his shirt. “And so are you.”

Your laugh was full, well-fed. “Then show me how you worship.”

“Turn around.”

It wasn’t long before both of you were wet in the right places, basking mostly naked in the artificial glow. A firm hand landed on your arching back and ran up your spine, around your neck, and back to your open mouth. “Hold tight,” he said. It was perhaps the most ridiculous thing he’d ever said to you with his tip at your entrance, but it felt like holy mandate in the moment. So, you tasted yourself on his fingers and bit when he edged in. Cool tile beneath your hands, warm relic at your side, and manhood blossoming inside you.

Couldn’t be bothered to touch yourself. Too focused on accepting the last half ilm of him, his hardness. He dug his fingernails into your ass, squeezed you back, and pushed himself forward, pushed in. A symphony of senses once he’d done it—his husky _yes_ , your tightening, the smack of sweat on sweat. The fake fire, a fire in your eyes, sex burning out the scent of old dust burning.

This is gone now, you realize. Someone has taken it from you, secreted the evidence or spent it away. Drunk on dreams and weeping, you wish you had bit him hard enough to scar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tooth and nail get it


	14. Thirteen: Free Day 2 - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Thirteen: Free Day 2**  
>  Explicit. Ambiguous female WoL. The Warrior of Light persuades Estinien and Aymeric to try something new with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out there's plenty of room for everyone

The idea that the Warrior of Light could take either of them was enough to put sweat on Estinien’s forehead. The idea that she’d have them both— _at the same time_ —was infuriating.

At least, he had no choice but to name what he was feeling after the emotion that made him lower his brow and boil.

“Prepare thyself, Aymeric,” the Warrior said, straddling the Lord Speaker. She was facing away from him—facing Estinien, who stood naked a few fulms away from the bed—and smiling like a devilless. “This operation must be delicately done, lest we draw it to an early end.”

“Worry not for my fortitude,” Aymeric said, flexing an ankle. One set of fingers wrapped over the soft skin beneath her breast. The other set held his cock between her thighs in preparation. Naturally, he would enter first, while the Azure Dragoon stood around clenching and unclenching his fists.

“And you, Estinien?” the Warrior said, rocking her lips over a head that wasn’t his. “Are you ready?”

“Hm.” A quick flick of his eyebrows. “Seems the question is premature.”

“Shh. I’ll not have you cursing our experiment. Let’s proceed…” The bed creaked as she leaned back on her arms and stared low-lidded at the ceiling. With a more deliberate lust, Estinien stared at _her_ —particularly at that wet spot where Aymeric was slipping in with ease. Such a large man, such a small hero, and she wasn’t even halfway done. The Dragoon thumbed at his slit with bated breath.

Fully hilted, Aymeric groaned and raised his hips. The Warrior knew how to ride, smiled like her mount had stretched beneath her. A balancing act. “This is going to feel so good,” she said, patting the Lord Speaker’s knee. “For all of us.”

Aymeric repeated the motion, wanting to move more than he could. “I must admit it feels quite good for me already.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” She reached both hands out to Estinien, palms up. Luring him to a haunted spot in the forest. “Help me down.”

He let himself be lured, grabbed her hands, and helped her sink back onto his best friend’s chest. Heat radiated from both of them. Estinien flared his nostrils and leaned into the ring of his hand, trying to keep the sex and sweat from tempering him. Aymeric soon had his hands in the right places, rubbing breasts, pinching nipples. Things Estinien could’ve done himself if he hadn’t been puzzling at how her tiny hole could _possibly_ accommodate another man, knowing in his gut it would have to.

“How about now, my friend?” the Warrior said, quieter. “Still premature?”

He turned his nose up. “Are _you_ ready? Full as you are?”

“I have quite the appetite…”

“And if it hurts?”

She smirked. “Wound me.”

Words he wanted to hear. Time was ticking.

He started with his fingers. He didn’t have to touch her to know she was plenty wet, but feeling it firsthand made him growl. First one, then two fingers joined Aymeric’s cock, stretching her. By the third, Estinien was practically panting. And it wasn’t just the warmth of her insides—the heat of _him_ called, too. He started thinking of those days when they were afraid to fuck each other, but eager to press head to head, oil up, and rub until one orgasm set off the other.

Estinien slipped his fingers out and eased over Aymeric’s legs, hunkered down and aimed. Before he pressed, he took stock of the Warrior’s loose tongue, her limp arms. Aymeric was holding her waist and breathing hard enough to move both of them. “Well?” the wild woman said, smiling. “What are you waiting for?”

It wasn’t easy. The pressure was almost _too_ much. He backed out. He backed in. And then he pressed and pressed and held once he found a spot that made them all groan.

The Warrior was clenching the sheets, mouth frozen. Aymeric, with red cheeks and sweaty hair, looked perhaps three pumps away from expiring. Estinien, for a few terrifying seconds, felt even closer. The gods graced him with a motionless moment. Though he twitched and clenched, he did not release...somehow.

The Warrior cried out between breaths. “Plan...plan on moving?”

Estinien grunted. “Once I start moving, it’s unlikely I’ll be able to stop.”

“I see,” she said. “Well—”

Aymeric raised his ass, and the Warrior on top of him, off the bed, trying to find friction. She grunted, he groaned, and the fire finally sparked in Estinien. An uncontained flame given plenty of fuel and room to burn.

He lurched forward and set his arms on the bed. Between Aymeric and the Warrior, he had so much to look at, faces and bodies he called beautiful, but he focused on _feeling_ instead, feeling her tighten, feeling him twitch. A brilliant toxicity for which he could never develop a tolerance, no matter how much he tasted. So much and not enough, the poison pushing his hips forward, a beast always snarling and chasing something deeper. Something impossibly deep.

The Warrior liked the challenge, and Estinien liked being clawed and craved. He felt like he was fucking both of them. Maybe, in a way, he was. They both reacted to his tempo and sang a sultry duet. He talked about wanting power, wanting control; actually getting it made him blush. Made him a bit _too_ sensitive.

Shuddering, Estinien lowered his head and kissed the Warrior’s breast. White hair feathered across her skin. “I’m enjoying myself,” she said, running her nails over his scalp. “Estinien.”

Halone, was she _trying_ to break him?

No matter. He would let himself be broken.

Still hunched over, he regained his rhythm. Soon, Aymeric had to accelerate his own efforts from the bottom. Sometimes the Dragoon felt their heads make contact and rub together. A pleasure within pleasure. A line of spit dropped from his lip.

“Both of you,” the Warrior said, fingering herself. The arch of her back left enough room for a lance (or two) to slip beneath her. “My beloved companions.”

_Beloved._

It was enough to eliminate whatever final thoughts he’d been chewing on. Somehow, one of Aymeric’s hands ended up entwined with his. Beloved. Estinien no longer cared about lasting long enough to stroke his ego later. When he got close, he started edging the mattress off the bed frame ilm by ilm. He was choking on his own moans, finally free, delighting his partners with each unburdened sound.

Beloved.

He pumped heat into heat until he couldn’t move, then Aymeric moved for him. “More,” the Warrior begged, fingers in a frenzy. The Speaker obeyed with twisted lips until he came, too, finally setting off a woman who happily watched Estinien wince each time her pleasure pulsed around him.

And then, just as haphazardly as it had begun, it was over.

“Good _gods_ ,” the Warrior said, letting both of her arms fall to the side. “A powerful experience for all involved, I daresay.”

“Aye…” Estinien blinked the emptiness back into his shining eyes. “And a messy one.”

The Lord Speaker wiped his forehead, clearing his throat. “W-well...now to the matter of extrication.”

“Please, do _not_ call it that.”

The Warrior laughed. “I propose Estinien _extricate_ himself first, considering he fulfilled his own prophecy.”

“Ugh.” He pressed his grimace into her breasts. “You are one to talk about _filling_ anything…”


	15. Fourteen: Part - G

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fourteen: Part**  
>  General. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. Something has upset the Warrior of Light, and Aymeric is keen on making things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happens roughly after HW, before SB...and what's more important here is that I'm writing something, even if it doesn't end up working with ~le canon~ later

The bathing room had been silent for an entire bell. Aymeric had heard the drain unplugged, the tub run dry, then silence. Not keen on interrupting anyone—particularly not someone he admired—he sat at his desk and intermittently ignored his paperwork.

Surely whatever was keeping the Warrior of Light was something he could handle on his own.

Surely?

At the distant ring of cathedral bells, Aymeric pushed his chair back. Then and only then did Bas’ir deign to open the bathroom door, eyes looking wetter than the long hair swept over his shoulder.

The Lord Speaker rose immediately, like knights did when he himself entered a room. He’d have rushed over, reached out happily, but the Miqo’te was fickle with his affection. Despite their budding closeness, Aymeric was hesitant to say he'd reached true emotional literacy with Bas’ir. Sometimes he feared he never would.

Bas’ir’s shoulders eased when they locked eyes. “Forgive me,” he said. “My chronic melancholy got the best of me.” Starting for the canopied bed, he used his oversized sleeve to wipe his eyes. The robe was a gift—royal blue, soft, silky, and apparently a bit too large. This was the first time he’d worn it.

Aymeric, dressed in a simple tunic and soft trousers, met him at his destination, waited for the Warrior to arrange himself before adding his own weight to the mattress. “What troubles you?”

“You will think me a fool.” Yellow eyes squinted at nothing in particular. He brought his knees to his chest and held his head in his hand. There was something childlike about the gesture.

“I’d be a greater fool not to ask.” First a risk—a great hand on Bas’ir’s shoulder—and the payoff—Bas’ir leaning in and closing his eyes. Aymeric felt privileged, and a bit embarrassed at his increased heart rate. “I want to aid you, if I may.”

Bas’ir shook his head, half nuzzle, all denial. “Let me forget how I’ve hurt myself.”

“Where does it hurt?”

A dark tail flicked a pillow in time with a tiny hum. A bittersweet sound. Bas’ir left room for an echo before raising what was left of his left arm and smiling like he’d done something sinister. “Well, the same place it always hurts, of course.”

The Elezen contemplated his options and decided his safest bet was to deepen the embrace. Thus yet another of his gambles paid off; as his arms explored the Warrior’s torso, as his chin found a comfortable place to rest on Bas’ir’s shoulders, the mercurial man _laughed_ before beginning his explanation.

“I...I don’t know why,” he said, edging himself halfway onto Aymeric’s lap. “I somehow thought...I wanted to, with one arm…” The foolishness of whatever had happened caught up with him again and made him wipe his brow. “I wanted to braid my hair.”

“Braid your hair?”

“It’s _long_ enough, and I’ve gotten better with this blasted right hand, but…”

“It’s not enough.”

Two deep nods and a shudder. “It’s not enough.” He wriggled into a new position, arm curled over Aymeric’s chest, tail swept over his own waist, one leg between the Elezen’s.

As Bas’ir adjusted himself, Aymeric tried to lift the new weight he wielded. A fighter of primals, laid low by an impossible braid. Everyone has enemies. “I suppose the act of braiding lends itself to those with at least two hands at the ready…”

“A lesson hard learned, dear Speaker.”

“Thankfully, you have been blessed with three.”

Bas’ir rose with the speed of a man expecting two arms to sprout from his back at any second. His voice expressed a more common rhythm. “You? You can braid hair?”

“Of course! I taught Estinien how to braid his.”

“Estinien braids his hair? Hmph.” He slouched on Aymeric and, while he couldn’t _cross_ his arms, he managed a gesture that captured the same energy. “Now I definitely don’t believe you.”

“I would be happy to prove the veracity of my claims.” He took one final chance and raised Bas’ir by his chin. Those yellow eyes popped open on command, bending to the blue. Aymeric smiled. “ _Very_ happy. If you would allow me.”

Moments later, Bas’ir sat at the edge of the bed with his hand in his lap, and Aymeric sat behind him with a golden comb. Gently, he ran it through and parted the soft, sage-scented hair before him, thankful he could make himself useful. And while he couldn’t see Bas’ir’s face, he did hear, and gracefully ignore, a small song of suspicious sniffles. Aymeric had never been a gambling man, but for this man he would go to great lengths to improve his odds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to imagine when Bas'ir cuddles with anyone larger than himself he constantly wriggles around and occasionally tries to climb them


	16. Fifteen: Ache - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fifteen: Ache - T**  
>  Teen. 5.3 spoilers. Specific WoL. Emet-Selch retrieves his fellow Convocation member from a pile of rubble and tells him to shut up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare thy thinking emojis

"Hades…"

A call like distant smoke came from the wilting body in Emet-Selch's arms. Despite his better judgment, he answered. "You really ought to keep quiet. I know that's difficult for you."

"I have a very good idea." Azem held his cracked mask over his chest. A dark braid leaked from his hood, on the verge of unfurling. Briefly, he pointed to the sky, gray and brooding, before going limp again. "Must remember. When I wake up."

"You'll remember." The Shepherd was bruised and bloody, but victorious. Word had made its way to Emet-Selch only after the battle's conclusion, and so he'd come upon a small village of wide-eyed watchers, saved from some manner of beast by a stubborn warrior, an unruly man who wound up lying in a crumpled heap among charred wood and fallen stone. For all the effort he had apparently expended in combat, walking was impossible. Running his mouth, however…

"Teeth. It's about teeth."

Emet-Selch sighed. "It's about _teeth_ …"

Azem coughed. He hadn't opened his eyes since he recognized the one who'd come to retrieve him from the rubble. "Yes, about teeth. What if—"

"If you've enough energy to ramble against my warnings, I'll not suffer carrying you any longer." He stopped walking. A promise to make good on his threat if needed. Azem would continue speaking, no question about that. Whatever came out of his mouth, though, would tell his fellow whether he could make his own way to his quarters.

"Hades," Azem said again, and Hades puzzled. He hadn't been expecting to hear his name called once, let alone twice. Perhaps this itself was a sign, as the Shepherd almost always chose the professional over the personal, when available. Could’ve been drunk on pain and aching silly. "It's a very good idea. You will like it. I…" Another cough, then calm. "I assure you."

"Will it stop you from bleeding onto my robes?"

Azem laughed, shifted, winced. Held the pained expression, exhaled. For a moment he looked almost peaceful. Then his yellow eyes—and his mouth—popped once again open. "I don't want to forget."

Then Emet-Selch knew he was carrying not a man but a manipulator. In all likelihood, he would continue carrying him, now and onward. And, in all likelihood, he’d never walk a straight line again because he was so busy rolling his eyes. Thus, rolling his eyes, did he take his next step. Azem hummed and clutched his mask tighter.

“Go on then,” Hades said. “Whatever it is, I’ll remember it for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Thus Were Vampires Invented


	17. Sixteen: Lucubration - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Sixteen: Lucubration**  
>  Teen. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. The future Warrior of Light tries to get his fellow scholar G'raha Tia to come to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm...don't give me that look.

Bas'ir Bahani, somehow having fallen asleep without much consternation, woke to candlelight flushing over his bedroom. At his desk, snored a well-muscled scholar, drooling on some ancient tome. It was late, or possibly quite early, and both of them had academic obligations to fulfill come sunrise. The dark-haired man rubbed his eyes and lumbered forward on the bed, dragging his mountain of covers, wondering why he felt so jealous of spit-covered words.

"Raha," he said, voice hoarse, hand reaching. "Raha come to bed."

G'raha Tia did not stir. Not even a little. Other than his deep, tidal breaths, he was so unmoving Bas'ir wondered if he'd mistaken the whispering winds outside for the sound of his own voice.

"Raha," Bas'ir said again. Now, he lurched over the edge of the bed with his tail extended behind him in an ill-fated act of balance. "Raha, wake _up_."

Finally, Raha jumped into alertness—not at his name, but at the cacophony a certain Keeper of the Moon made tumbling off the bed and onto the wooden floor. "Gods, Bas'ir! Are you all right?"

"Please help me."

The Seeker wiped his mouth and recovered the swaddled, half-broken creature. Once Bas'ir was capable of holding an upright position, he held his head in his hands. Raha patted his back and yawned. "What happened?"

"I was _trying_ to wake you."

"I was awake."

"So you might sleep more properly."

"I said I _was_ awake."

"You most certainly were not." Bas'ir's eyes narrowed into tiny, judgmental slits. "And if you were, you're liable for my medical bills."

"There are simpler ways to rouse a man. Call his name, perhaps?"

Blue ears flared back. "I did! You were asleep, gods damn you. No friend of mine slobbers upon his literature on purpose."

Raha pursed his lips and ran a flat palm over the tome, saying nothing when he felt the evidence for himself. They could've continued like that until one way or another they woke up Bas'ir's dormitory neighbors...but the late hour, the veracity of Bas'ir's accusations, and his curious usage of the word "friend" conspired to calm both young men.

"I suppose I should be on my way, then," Raha said, standing, offering his hand.

Bas'ir shuffled and freed his arm from his twisted blankets, so he could grab the Seeker and stand. "No. Stay."

"Stay?"

"Please." Despite the mass of linens on his shoulders, he looked small and fragile anchoring his eyes to his feet.

Raha frowned. When he stretched, he popped his neck. "I trust you shall commit to sleeping and sleeping only, then?"

The blanket monster started back for the bed. "Loathe as I am to admit it...your companionship is something I value, whether my loins get anything out of it or not." A woosh of air accompanied his _plop_.

Raha hummed a sunny chuckle. "Happy to be of use to you, friend."

Candle blown out, window glowing dimly with early celestial threats, the two Miqo'te entangled themselves in their traditional way: repeatedly, until something felt right. That something ended up being Raha on his back, Bas'ir's head on his chest, their legs mingling, rubbing together like lazy crickets. For men of their age and disposition, it could've passed for platonic _if_ the Keeper hadn't kept his eyes open for so long, staring at eyes closed and framed with long lashes.

"I sleep horribly," Bas'ir said softly. "Sleep better when you stay."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Raha's tired hand landed on a mess of dark hair and scratched. "I do not mind staying, but...nor do I like to impose."

"Rest assured. I have no qualms about telling anyone, even you, to leave me alone."

Raha smiled. "'Even me.' I relish the implication that you have put me on a level of my own."

Bas'ir groaned and pressed his scowl onto the other man's now bare chest. "You'll be the next one who ends up on the floor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I would have written this very differently if I had some more brain cells this afternoon :)


	18. Seventeen: Fade - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Seventeen - Fade**  
>  Explicit. Ambiguous female WoL. Lucia spies Aymeric and the Warrior of Light engaging in some manner of tussle, and thus tussles with her own romantic feelings...in a similarly physical way.
> 
> Aaaaaaand I definitely added a second part where the inverse happens as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pick your poison.
> 
> Voyeurism herein. For whatever reason, I wrote the first one in second person and the second one in third person. Probably because of brainrot. Ignore it.

Aymeric spoke of you often, and he didn’t always use your name. But Lucia knew. She could read between the lines and pretend to be illiterate. For his sake. For her sake. For yours.

Some days her commander might stare at a dreary, cloud-covered sky and invite all the world’s sunlight into his eyes, saying something like “Oh, what a beautiful day!” Or perhaps a bumbling recruit would shuffle into the room with a sloppy stack of reports and neglected paperwork, only for Aymeric to sigh like the happy sap at the center of a satirical tract on optimism. “Ah, well it seems I’ll be getting home late after all!” With you at his beck and call, the star itself was in on his jokes, and there were no coincidences.

Make no mistake. The sour taste in Lucia’s mouth came not from you drawing her lord’s attention. Rather, she wished that _she_ had drawn your gaze instead.

Aymeric was a logical choice. More than fair. Handsome, powerful, charming, and—perhaps most importantly—a man of character. After all, his integrity had drawn the Garlean to him in the first place. Bitterness aside, she was happy to serve him, honored to bow at his command, proud to have earned his trust…

Hollow at having broken it. Even in some trivial way.

Neither you nor Aymeric must have known Lucia lingered at the Congregation. Instead of accompanying her commander, she had volunteered to shore up a short-staffed infirmary with her limited medical knowledge and helping hands. Luckily, you were in Ishgard and more than capable of seeing to Ser Aymeric’s needs. And see to them you did.

She was making for the exit when she caught your croon. When your croon caught her. These sounds were forbidden, she thought, even as she held her breath to better hear them. You sounded gentler than she’d imagined. Softer. Not always a Warrior, then, but a pliant, focused lover as well. With her eyes drifting closed, it wasn’t hard to imagine those sounds rising from between her thighs instead of wafting from behind his wooden door. Not hard to imagine at all—too _easy_ , in fact, to see you lifting your head with lust, finding out how many fingers you could fit inside before Lucia started crooning, too.

 _I must go_ , she thought, flattening her palm over her stomach. But she did not go anywhere but closer to her commander’s door, where she knelt—not for him this time, but for the keyhole.

You were half dressed and wholly spread across the desk. Aymeric, so professional, so put together, was making your breasts bounce so dutifully he should’ve been getting paid for it. What he was giving you looked _thick_. Equal parts pain and pleasure, begetting pleasure. And it painted something unforgettable on your face: an expression your watcher would’ve spent the rest of her days trying to recreate, if you would only make the offer.

Something stirred within her. Kept her stationary even as Aymeric’s hot lips whispered in your ear and you pulled him closer, tangling your arms and legs around him like vines. The voyeur’s heart was pounding. She could feel it in her fingertips. In her legs. Deeper. He was coming and she sat there watching until he had emptied himself entirely, emptied himself in you—the Warrior of Light. Ishgard’s savior and her own commander. She watched until he groaned and bucked twice, thrice, still seeking the carnal light you’d granted him, glistening in the holy water of sweat drawn forth in your image. Anointed. Blessed, as a sinner watched with her mouth wide open.

Lucia shook her head and rose. _I must go._ And this time she meant it. _I shouldn’t have stayed in the first place._

In her quarters, she did exactly what you would expect. When she finally curled upon her bed wearing only a sheer nightgown and no smallclothes, her fingers couldn’t do what she wanted them to do, what her body needed them to do. How could she? Yes, your face had fueled her intimate thoughts before, but now she _knew_. Imagination ceded to memory. She had learned things she couldn’t forget. Things that would have her burning through her clothing if she didn’t douse the fire.

With upturned eyebrows, she sighed and let her hand hang between her legs. It wouldn’t take long. Just a touch or two, at most. By then, if she wanted to keep going, pleasure would have rotted the parts of her brain telling her to chastise herself and sleep the flames away. “Forgive me,” she said. But who would forgive her? You? The Fury? Aymeric? Herself?

When her fingers finally hit, they hit right. She crumpled over on the bed and rubbed herself madly over the edge. It was fast and full, the kind of orgasm she’d had with her first woman. And when her center stopped pulsing, she sat at another precipice; the fire was out, but a dutiful guardian would watch the embers fade as well, lest new flames arise from what she had worked to extinguish.

It seemed contradictory to continue touching herself, bent on tempering her heart against you. Sensation, though, was known for its ability to numb. A tool in the fight of body versus mind. Loneliness had turned to lust. Now in the forge of her feelings, she would strike the ugly, bitter metals into straight and stoic bars, strike them by bending her middle finger over her clit and telling herself that getting over you was as easy as getting off.

//

Aymeric could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Seeing. Feeling in his loins. The infirmary was supposed to be empty. His was an era of peace. And yet creaking wood had called him from his office to the second floor of the Congregation, where light filtered from a room at the end of the hall. Late as it was, he had minutes to spare before heading back to the manor—minutes he had _expected_ to spend blowing out a candle, not staring wide-eyed at the Warrior of Light riding his second-in-command.

They must not have seen him. _By the Fury_ he hoped they hadn’t seen him, because he had no immediate intention of walking away.

The Warrior, completely naked spare the stockings that hugged her supple thighs, had her hands clamped around the headboard, her eyes shut hard, her eyebrows knitted. Aymeric recognized Lucia by tufts of sweaty blonde hair plastered on the pillow. She was gripping the Warrior’s ass with gusto, apparently laboring at her lips with just as much fervor. The fingers would leave marks. Possibly bruises. They’d certainly left a mental impression on Aymeric.

_How long have they been…?_

While he rattled through the past few weeks, he paid no attention to the hand creeping to the erection threatening to tent his robes. At first touch, it felt like _relief_ , not _violation_. A piercing voice reminded him he was watching something private through a door his friends had most likely left open on accident. He snapped both hands behind his back and held.

“Lucia…” the Warrior said, tensing her thighs and rocking faster. “I’m...I’m close.”

A husky voice replied. “Let me up. Let me show you something.”

The Warrior collapsed onto her back. The Garlean soon loomed over her and showered hot kisses down her body, her blushing breasts, until meeting her center again, green eyes lit with fiery lust. Aymeric spied her index and middle fingers curling together. She plunged them inside the Warrior, gently first, then with fury. The Warrior arched her back and shook, gave into expert ministrations, until finally she twitched her hips off the bed and melted into a puddle of her own liquid pleasure.

Lucia slowed her pace and sucked the Warrior’s clit until both of them started laughing. “You are spectacular,” the Garlean said, wiping her forehead with her arm.

“And you...more skilled than I ever would have imagined.”

Aymeric’s mind caught up with him...but not entirely. Thinking only of escape, not stealth, he plodded back down the hallway and descended the stairs like an entire army. The brisk outside air did little to cool his disposition.

By the time his bath was ready, he had listed a thousand reasons he should let himself soften and forget. Each time he remembered the heavenly curve of the Warrior’s ass, those _reasons_ softened instead.

_With Lucia…? Am I completely oblivious?_

Oh, but lust could fill his questions with meaningless answers _just_ long enough to get what it wanted. And it wanted to come.

With hot water at his back, he leaned on the tub and beat himself, full of weeping envy. He would give everything to taste what she had tasted. Fill what she had filled. Now, legs shaking, he filled nothing but his own palm, wondering if he’d be wondering about that flavor for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Only Fair...


	19. Eighteen: Panglossian - M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Eighteen: Panglossian**  
>  Mature. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. 5.3 spoilers. The Warrior of Light has nightmares the day before he and the newest Scion are to meet his former flame: Ser Aymeric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am 120% off my shit today
> 
> Nakey people herein. Referenced consensual sex work.

Bas'ir Bahani knew he was dreaming. Though he wasn't a _complete_ fool, the reality he had mashed into existence—the reality necessary to paint such colorful pictures—was proof enough that he harbored foolishness in droves. He sat on a soggy log in the middle of an iced-over wood. Coerthas, naturally. He'd have been shivering in the waking world. Before him danced two warriors, two lovers, all bravado and blade. And he didn't want this fight to happen. But he did, somehow, want to _see_ it happen.

"To first blood," Aymeric said, perfect teeth all glittering with charisma. Instead of wearing the regalia familiar to Ishgardians, he appeared now in a tunic and loose trousers; a look more familiar to Bas'ir, who'd wasted winters away in his warm mansion. Happily wasted. Rightfully wasted. But wasted nonetheless.

Opposite the Lord Speaker, G’raha Tia waved the tip of his aetherial sword, striding like a confident pirate on sea legs. He looked as he did in life, sunny eyes belying wisdom, scarf and tail whipping in the wind. He looked green and eager. A man who fought without secrets. “There’s still time for you to back down,” he said. “I have been known to show mercy.”

Aymeric chuckled and extended his blade. A sturdy thrusting guard. The only one Bas’ir knew, and the only one that ever showed up in his dreams. The Speaker’s long fingers tightened around the hilt. “Have you?” he said. “Well, I have not.”

Bas’ir flinched hard when sword hit sword. He clenched his dream-eyes shut so hard he may have opened his real ones. After a rush of metallic clangs, the combatants drifted apart and the Keeper looked once again at the wooded arena. Now, they circled one another, each part man, part vulture, waiting for an opening, bodies shifting to create one. _Not vultures,_ he thought. _Peacocks._ And the very next moment they sprouted feathers where most men grew tails.

Someone set a hand on Bas’ir’s bouncing knee. It was Raha—not the Raha battling Ishgard’s most eligible bachelor—but a different one. One watching the battle unfold, like Bas’ir. Same eyes, same face, separate presence. 

“Raha!” Bas’ir said, quickly attaching himself and shaking his head. “You must put an end to this.”

The Seeker hummed and ran his hands over the poor creature’s shaking shoulders. “Now, now,” he said. “We both know that lies within the purview of your power. Not mine.”

“It’s not like I _want_ you to fight.” He ran his fingers down his face and left just enough room to peek at the ongoing match. The swords clashed and caught, weak to weak. Aymeric pushed harder and broke Raha back, forced him to scurry through the snow for purchase. Still, the Seeker bore a fire-breathing grin. Somewhere along the way, they'd lost their tail feathers. Bas’ir groaned. “This is a nightmare.”

“This is a dream,” other-Raha said. “Yours, to be precise. Something on your mind?”

“Yes. Of course there is. This.” He pointed at the martial display. “Why is it combat? Why can’t it be sex?”

Other-Raha shrugged. “It can be sex.”

Then the cold finally hit Bas’ir. Hollow horror pried his eyes open. “No,” he said. “No, it can’t.”

But it was.

Forget Coerthas. When Bas'ir next blinked, they were all in Kugane, deep in the belly of an infamous inn. If his winters once belonged to Aymeric, his summers belonged in this windowless room where he’d granted strangers the privilege of closeness with his body. Sometimes the privilege of entrance. The two combatants now tussled for a different kind of dominance. Perhaps this, too, was the kind of fight Bas'ir somehow wanted to behold...but the thought could've burned his tongue out of his mouth it was so sour.

“What happened to first blood?” Raha whispered, naked and prone with Aymeric using just one hand to hold his wrists together.

“Still applies,” the Elezen said, running his fangs—his fangs?—across Raha’s neck, pressing his length on the smaller man’s ass.

Raha chuckled and leaned into it. They were both so muscled, so clean, so magnificent. “You make a compelling argument for surrender.”

Other-Raha covered his mouth, blushing. “Oh my.”

“That is _it!_ ” Bas’ir stood and clenched his fists, both flesh as they always were in dreams. “I’ll not suffer this humiliation. Come with me.” He flapped his fingers and made for the exit, faithful companion in tow. He tried to ignore what he was hearing, despite its lusty pull.

“Where are we going?” other-Raha said. _True_ Raha. The one who had the grace and dignity to ignore what was surely a magnetic display of sexuality unfolding at their backs.

“Somewhere else. Anywhere else.” The sliding door slid open on its own, giving way to a whole corridor of doors. The first parted as Bas’ir approached, revealing Bas’ir. Long-haired as he had once been, untattooed, and unclothed, spare the traditional black gloves that stretched nearly to his shoulders. His smile stretched cheek to cheek, and at his rear a grinning Garlean woman aimed the largest glass piece he’d ever seen.

Bas’ir—the clothed one—yelped and covered Raha’s eyes. “Not this one! Next door!”

“What’s wrong?”

“We mustn’t enter that room.” Keeper pulled Seeker down the hallway until another partition parted. At first glance, it was empty. Bare mats and a folded futon, floral patterns on the wall. But a trail of red rope led his yellow eyes to the truth; another copy of himself sat bound in the corner with a ribbon on his neck...and a second somewhere else.

Bas’ir nearly fainted, but even on wobbly dream legs he held strong. “Occupied! This one is occupied!” He pushed his lover back into the hallway.

“What are you hiding?” Raha grabbed his wrists and scowled. “You’re acting...absurd.”

“There are things I’d rather you...rather you not see!” He wrenched his hands away. He wasn't ashamed. He'd never been ashamed. He'd _enjoyed_ it. But would his past fit into his oldest friend's definition of _hero?_

Raha reached again. “I trust you. You can tell me.”

“I’ll happily tell you! But to show you is another matter entirely.”

“Show me!”

“No!”

They shoved each other like children until Bas’ir lost his footing and fell into Aymeric’s sudden embrace. It was just as warm as he remembered. Full and gentle and _not what he wanted anymore._

“I’m the picture of civility,” the Lord Speaker spoke. The world was fading, but his whispering fingers remained, tugging at his lips. “Remember. You’ve called me a diplomat before.”

Bas’ir woke up with his own fingers in his mouth and ghost tears in his eyes. The one he loved slept next to him, so he called his name. 

"Raha.”

“Hmm?” Red ears flicked back. Red eyes flickered open. “Something a matter?”

“I’m terrified. Too terrified to sleep.” They tangled and re-tangled until the walls around the Keeper warmed him. Finger-painting on his back, a soothing song nipping at his ears.

“You’re safe,” Raha said.

“This meeting will be the death of me.”

“Both you and history remember him as a man of integrity.” He punctuated the sentence with a kiss to his lover’s forehead. “Perhaps focusing on the mission will help.”

“I...I want him to like you.” He sniffled and wriggled closer, hoping the words sounded less juvenile than they tasted. “I don’t want him to hate me for...you…”

“I’m sure he—”

“For loving you.”

Like tuning forks, the words ushered in a long period of silence. Raha ran his fingers over Bas’ir’s scalp throughout, breathing easier than he ever had on the First. The night was still young enough that both of them could get plenty of rest before it was time to rise and look their anxieties in the eye. The morning would bring uncertainty, but it would have to be a powerful day to break the bond they’d forged, broken, and forged back stronger.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” Bas’ir said. “I had...strange dreams.”

“Call and I shall happily answer. Each and every time.”

One or both of them started purring. The sound helped blur the lingering images of the nightmare, but Bas'ir still felt them in his gut. Nevertheless, one side of his lips managed a smile. “I feel certain, now, that...everything will come to an agreeable end. Somehow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a scale of 1-10 how similar are Bas'ir's dreams to yours? Personally, I'd say my dreams have a similar energy but fewer people are naked so I'm gonna say hmm...maybe 7/10.
> 
> Also if you have opinions on Candide my ears are open..........


	20. Nineteen: Where the Heart Is - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Nineteen: Where the Heart Is**  
>  Teen. Ambiguous female WoL. Post ShB. WoL/Exarch and past WoL/Haurchefant. The Warrior of Light is visited by a familiar light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to keep writing but then shit hit the fan in my real life and so...this is what you get for now.

Her mug was almost empty. A sweet chocolate crescent lined the rim. She was holding it about an ilm from her lips, warming her calloused palms with its lingering heat, not that she needed it. Before her burned the cozy fire she considered the center of Coerthas—perhaps of the star at large—nestled in her old love's sparsely decorated quarters. Behind her, a gentle spirit hugged her waist, hummed into her neck.

"He sounds like a fine man," Haurchefant said. Smoothly, warmly, meaning it. The fire crackled like a purr.

"I'm...quite fond of him," she said, exhaling. Her breath made ripples on the surface of her drink. The atmosphere was slow and drunk. Reminded her of nights at the Forgotten Knight, stumbling into one another's arms, one another's beds depending on how far they made it. Nights where every mistake was a happy one.

"Hmhm. Well, I must imagine so, considering what you've told me. He sounds like a storybook hero." Each word floated like a flower in the wind. He was rubbing his forehead at her nape, dancing the tip of his aquiline nose across her spine. "Though I suppose a warm fireplace is the best place to share tales, if you've aught to tell."

"All of mine are true," she said, leaning back into the ghost. His lines fit the blueprint left in her memory. Not even dreams could blur his sterling image. "He's less confident than you, I think...but in his devotion he's an appropriate match."

"Must be smarter than I…"

"Perhaps a tad trickier...but not in every way."

The air filled with his chuckle. Friendly fuel for the fire’s golden glow. “I suppose a gentleman would make no further inquiries.”

“Perhaps a gentleman would not.” She edged her hips forward and leaned back until she could look him in his silver eyes. Dreams rarely let her do this. Usually the fantasy would fade, perhaps to protect her from the power of such potent memories given new, temporary life. “But would a knight?”

He smiled. For a second the Warrior thought she’d fished a piece of him from the lifestream. Some force bid her eyes to close; she wasn’t allowed to see him leaning in to plant a kiss on her forehead. But she felt it.

When she opened her eyes, she was looking at the fire again.

“You ought to be waking soon, my love,” he said, from somewhere.

A tear rolled down her cheek, but she stopped herself from frowning. “So much has happened. I have much and more to share.”

“And share you will.” Maybe he _was_ the fire. Maybe he always had been. The fire was all that remained. “But for now—a fine man awaits you in the waking world.”

“Haurchefant—”

“Call and ever shall I answer, such that I am able.” The room gave way to grey and only grey, but still the flames embraced her, invisible, eternal, embedded in her being. “Yours is a light worth protecting.”

She was already sitting up straight in bed by the time her eyes opened. The space at her side was empty, and the world around her blue. The inside of the Crystal Tower. Blinking once, twice, ten times rapidly, she realized its keeper was watching her from the doorway, a curious look of concern glinting in his crimson gaze.


	21. Twenty - Free Day 3 - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Twenty: Free Day 3**  
>  Teen. Ambiguous female WoL. Continued from nineteen. WoL/Exarch with past WoL/Haurchefant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned, I had some really bad shit happen in my personal life these past few days, so I haven't been able to put my heart and soul into what I've written. Regardless—I am extra appreciative of anyone out there reading and cheering me on. I at least managed to scribble down what I had wanted the rest of yesterday's entry to be like.

Blinking once, twice, ten times rapidly, she realized the Tower's keeper was watching her from the doorway, a curious look of concern glinting in his crimson gaze.

"Are you all right?" he said. Dressed in his usual garb, he held a gold-trimmed tray with two steaming mugs and a basket of biscuits. How long ago had he risen? Must’ve been long enough for morning to have taken root in his eyes.

The Warrior rubbed her arms and looked side to side, as if the walls would offer a report on her sleep talking should she hesitate to explain. "I'm...fine…" Not a satisfying answer, she was certain, but it wasn't a lie. "I had a strange dream."

"Ah." Robes all aflutter, he came forward so fast the mugs on the tray clinked back in response. Nothing spilled; the man knew his body. “A troubling one?”

“No, not necessarily.”

“I’ll not pressure you to share.” He joined her on the bed and set the tray between them. The quarters and furnishings they shared were, after all, fit for Allagan royalty, and thus offered plenty of space. He could’ve arranged a whole dinner table at her feet and given her plenty of room.

Feeling pampered, she rubbed her eyes. “Have you been up long?”

“Perhaps a half a bell.” He reached out with his crystal arm and swiped a strand of hair from her forehead. “You looked so peaceful, I dared not interrupt…”

She let her lashes fall at his touch. Perhaps he wasn’t a fire, but instead a great and ancient forest that brimmed with life and knowledge. That he would offer her protection (to say nothing of his gifts from the kitchen) _warmed_ her, in much the same way Haurchefant’s welcoming hearth had in Coerthas. “It was bittersweet,” she said, reaching for a mug. “You see, sometimes I feel as though those I’ve lost are…”

“Hm?” He cocked his head.

She was staring into the mug, following the swirls of heat rising from the liquid’s surface, lost in their motion. “Are…”

He followed her line of sight and peered into the cup, possibly wondering if a fly had fallen in. When she spoke again, his ears perked up.

“This is hot chocolate?” she asked. The answer was already wafting about the room, deep and sweet. An unfamiliar take on a familiar favorite.

“Y-yes. Is there a problem?”

“I expected it to be coffee.”

“‘Twould be a simple matter for me to return to the kitchen and—”

She practically slammed her hand over his. “Don’t you dare!” Paying no mind to the temperature, she lifted the mug and chugged its contents like other Warriors chugged mead. And it burned in the _best_ way. It burned like brittle memories made stronger by the storm, like muscles learning a new technique. Her lover danced between emotions: confusion, awe, adoration, respect. When she was finished, she sighed and clapped the cup back onto the tray with a smile.

Raha half-laughed. “Er...do you feel—”

She pulled him by the back of his neck into a chocolate-covered kiss and held until his eyes grew heavy...he couldn’t stop his tongue from trying for a taste.


	22. Twenty-one: Foibles - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Twenty-one: Foibles**  
>  Explicit. Specific male WoL. Florian Loudin. The Warrior of Light struggles to enjoy a tawdry tale, and instead enlists the help of Haurchefant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and now for something completely different
> 
> DID NOT HAVE A CHANCE TO READ THROUGH, REALLY...ENJOY TYPOS BYE

Haurchefant Greystone had a book in his hand and a man in his lap. The man, one Florian Loudin, held a book of his own: _Unholy Hauntings_. They were cuddled up on a couch by the window in Haurchefant's private quarters at Camp Dragonhead. A cozy place, if not sparsely decorated. Bed here, fire there, reports littering the desk. Boots by the door—two pairs this time, wet from a walk in the snow. Light specks still melted soundlessly on the glass. And the Warrior of Light, despite the _incredibly_ intellectual material he parsed, was getting awfully distracted.

"Pray, dear Haurchefant," he said, slipping one leg off the couch. His hips sat at Haurchefant's side, like he'd been dropped upon him bridal style. "Tell me what you are reading."

Whatever it was, Haurchefant snapped it shut with a snicker. "Haven't you a tawdry tale of your own?"

"Not tawdry enough, I say." Florian was never particularly good at reading. He loved tales, but the telling of them had to be particular. As a student, he always preferred lectures to assigned reading, but he hadn't been a good student. Things he could touch, taste, and toy with held his attention much better. A motivation he held between his lips as he prodded his companion further. "This manuscript," he said, dangling the book by its spine. "It wants for realism."

“Let me see it, then…” He set his own book aside and plucked Florian’s selection from his loose grip. The Dragoon tapped his foot and smiled, watching Haurchefant’s expression blossom into delighted disgust. “Realism?” he said. “You’re asking for realism in a book about...about relations with a specter?”

“It has yet to provoke a _real_ reaction from _me_ , in any case.”

Haurchefant laughed into the pages, forehead to front cover. “Where did you even get this?”

“I don’t know.” His icy eyes glowed with fondness. “A brother of yours. Came highly recommended.”

The laughter grew and Florian, with a silent smile, watched in wonder. Moments of brightness like that made his scars fade faster. He was convinced. Eventually, Haurchefant pulled his arm out from behind the Warrior’s neck and wiped his eyes. Sighing, he handed the book back. “Truly, the world is a mysterious place. Of course...if I am reading you correctly, you have something to ask of me, do you not?”

“I’ve already asked you, in so many words.”

“Ah, forgive me.” He raised his hand and let his fingers uncurl. “Perhaps I’m not so versed in subtlety as...as the mind behind _Unholy Hauntings_.” He doubled over again and started laughing.

The scars grew ever lighter. Though he wasn’t normally one to interrupt the wondrous sounds of the natural world—songbirds, singing creeks, laughing bastards—Florian cleared his throat and rose like a military grunt called to attention. “Haurchefant!” he said. “I sampled this book expecting stimulation I have yet to receive. Thus, I approach you asking for the same thing.”

Haurchefant raised an eyebrow and let his laugh come to a natural end. “All right, settle down soldier. I hear you loud and clear.” He eased Florian back to a sitting position by grabbing his hands, then grazing a few key areas almost accidentally. A touch of the inner thigh, a slight squeeze of his chest, and...a not-so-inconspicuous palm of his crotch. “Say, I’ve an idea, though.”

“Well, I’m all ears.”

Camp Dragonhead’s keeper rose and started unbuttoning his shirt. “Why don’t you take your tale and direct your gaze toward the window? I think we may yet find a way to make the _Haunting_ , if not holier, at least more productive.”

When Haurchefant returned, he instructed Florian to divest himself of his bottoms, lean over the windowsill, and find a scene in _Hauntings_ that almost bordered on compelling. “I...I can see where this is going,” the Warrior said, flipping through. “I’ll admit I haven’t progressed very far. And what I read I didn’t much retain.”

Haurchefant leaned over, balancing himself on Florian’s ass. “What’s that earmarked there?”

“Ah.” A flutter of pages ensued. “Ah, well. It’s certainly one of _those_ scenes.”

“Excellent. Begin reading then. Out loud.”

“Ahem. Er...” Florian traced a line or two with his finger. “The...the castle’s keeper checked once more—”

Haurchefant’s wet finger traced a line from Florian’s balls to his entrance, where he gingerly pressed.

“Ah! No warnings, then?”

“You’ve had your warnings.” He kept his eyes pointed at his index finger, at the tensing muscle beneath it. “Keep reading.”

“Very well.” He cleared his throat again and leaned forward, spread his thighs a bit more. “The castle’s keeper checked once more...the halls for prying...eyes…”

Now a thumb pressed hard at the base of his spine. It was an anchor for Haurchefant’s circling fingers, too consistent, too gentle.

“Before returning to his quarters and...r-raising his robes…”

Haurchefant watched with rapturous attention as his lover tried to squirm back onto his hand. He wanted to give him what he wanted, but not before he worked for it. Circles, more circles before anything entered anything else...no matter how ready Haurchefant was to push his own heat in.

“Already the Presence...felt closer.” Laughing lightly, Florian let his head fall. “The Presence...how ridiculous.”

Haurchefant lifted his hand. “Is that what the text says?”

“Oh, hardly. Erm…where was I...”

As Florian searched for his place, Haurchefant undid his trousers, let his erection spring free, and applied more lube to his fingers. He again approached, knowing his patience would quarrel with desire.

The Warrior had his sentence. “Thus the keeper’s eyes fluttered to a close in—”

One finger pressed inside and stretched each way. Florian winced and tensed around it, gasping. Haurchefant’s eyelids hung heavy.

“In anticipation. Something not unlike…”

Looming, the knight squeezed the Warrior’s ass with his spare hand and probed deeper.

“Not unlike a hand crept...closer to his..his hole...t-t-t--”

“You’ll have to say it.” He pressed harder and pulled back, curling, setting a rhythm.

“ _Teasingly_. Teasingly slow. Tanta...tanta...tanta…”

A dark chuckle. “What in Halone’s name is ‘tanta?’”

Florian flattened his arms and let his head drop, laughing. “Absolutely nothing. Nothing.”

“Tanta what?”

“Tanta--”

“What?”

Liquid leaked from Florian’s tip. He shivered with his face pressed against the cold wood of the window. “Tanta _lizingly_...cold...and plenty wet...Seven Hells, add another, won’t you?”

“He says that, then?”

“No, _I_ do.” His breaths moved his whole body. At each exhale, he’d bob and tighten around Haurchefant’s now unmoving finger, a tactile plea. He would offer verbal ones, too. “Haurchefant,” he said, craning back with lusty eyes, half hidden by a smear of blond bangs. “Haurchefant, please.”

With a grin, Haurchefant prodded with a second finger. “Back to your book, then.”

Florian exhaled and found his place on the page. “He throbbed with cursed want, afraid and aroused… _gods_ that’s it...”

Now with two fingers he worked, wide-eyed. He’d remember this image forever—the shuddering Warrior of Light arching his back as a bead of precum dripped from his tip to the fabric of the couch. It was such a beautiful gift, he rewarded Florian with an unsolicited addition. Three fingers, all wet and welcomed easily.

“Yes...yes that…” He panted and oriented himself. “By the sinful creature he’d invited into his…”

“Florian…”

“Into his bedroom and…”

“Florian, how shall I have you?”

“And into his body.” The book fell to the floor. “Just _have_ me.”

Out with the fingers. Now, Haurchefant slicked himself before sliding all the way into his lover, every ilm at once. Florian’s fingers twitched and stretched. Hot breath fogged the cool glass of the window in little gasps. Pleasure like that could _only_ be holy, Haurchefant thought, trying to hold it together. There was so much he wanted to touch—arms, neck, back, ass, everywhere—but to begin he put both hands on the back of the couch and spread his legs, testing the angle with bent knees.

Florian arched even more and mouthed out sounds of pleasure. Good thing his companion had bigger concerns than storytelling now, he thought. Words would never make it out. He could hardly breathe past his desire. Could only articulate a fraction of his feelings.

Haurchefant, meanwhile, was silent. His upper body hardly moved; he was a well oiled machine of a man, seating himself deeply enough, precisely enough to bring pleasure-tears to the Warrior’s eyes. He buried his face in Florian’s hair and savored the sweat of his lover, thinking about how good he looked always—but especially with a long cock driving into him.

Singing, Florian shot a hand down to his own member and mirrored Haurchefant’s rhythm with his fingers. “Sorry,” he said, barely. “The couch.”

A husky voice answer at his ear. “I want you to come. Don’t care where.”

He beat his spare fist on the wood and forced Haurchefant deeper, deeper still until he felt so tense he thought he would pop at the seams. Instead, he crumpled and released a thick stream of cum onto the cushions, crooning. Before he had a chance to breathe, hands swept over his chest and held him steady, held him still. Held him in just the right place. Florian waited with unsteady eyes, knowing wet heat would fill him soon.

When it did, he sighed with pleasure, even as he twitched with oversensitivity. He let the man he loved bend him back onto his dick until both of them were more than satisfied. Neither of them moved for a while.

Well,” Haurchefant said, voice as weak as a whisper. “I, for one, think it’s a pretty good book.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FLORIAN HAS LOST HIS INNOCENCE


	23. Twenty-two: Argy-bargy - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Twenty-two: Argy-bargy**  
>  Explicit. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. Takes place before ARR, when G'raha Tia and the future Warrior of Light studied together. Tonight, though, they attend a party and quickly go from making a scene to making ugly, drunken love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this argies your bargies, if you know what I mean
> 
> As the description says, they're both drunk and Bas'ir acts standoffish and mean, but I think I get his point across. Just wanted to be clear in case you're not familiar with how much of a Character he is, this situation occurs after these two have established a sexual relationship.. where Someone may have developed some Feelings...

It began at a relaxed gathering of young academics and ended exactly where you’d expect.

After exams. Before the next semester. A smattering of departments coalescing in leisure with what would likely be the most decadent meal of the entire year, and all but certainly the most libatious. Bas’ir Bahani and G’raha Tia had emptied more than a few bottles by the time mouths started flapping with accusations and insults and—

“You delusional _buffoon!_ ” Bas’ir said, landing his index finger beneath Raha’s chin. The Keeper was one of those people who never slurred in his cups, even if the cups had him grounded and seeing gods. A trio of historians watched on with wary eyes. Bas’ir knew none of them by name, but even if he had...who is to say he’d have remembered? “As if _arms_ are the only component, the only factor to weigh here! Why, you’ve not—”

Raha pulled his head away and laughed into his palm. “You think…? You think this is about arms? Ha!” He rolled his right sleeve up and flexed. “Remember, you, whence these muscles came. Archery. With archery, I would sooner prevail over...over...well, over _you_ in any case.”

Bas'ir reared forward and shook his open palm before his eyes. “Menphina, you can’t even remember who we’re on about. This is precisely why the likes of _you_ could never hope to overcome a _true_ poet-lord of Allag. My ‘storybooks’ have done me well, I say.”

“Bas’ir Bahani!” Raha said, throwing his arms into the air. A few more heads turned, including an important one stationed near the back of the common room. “Bas’ir Bahani, I will lift you from the ground and toss you into beddle. Bat. Battle, that is. _Then_ we shall see how you fare.”

Krile Baldesion approached the quarrel and tugged at Raha’s shirt. “What has gotten into you two?” she said, exchanging urgent glances with the onlookers. They looked every which way, as if denying responsibility.

Bas’ir leaned forward with his hands on his hips, swaying like the scarf that dangled at his neck. “This man...this insufferable man is decrying that noble order of Allag. Besmirching those poet-lords who came before by insinuating _he_ —” Bas’ir jabbed the Seeker’s belly with his index. “—could best one in battle. Why, he hardly understands the—”

“ _You_ are doing any and all besmirching,” Raha said, grabbing the hand that jabbed. Its owner lurched forward onto one knee, hissing. “Your idea of combat is beyond juvenile.” Raha turned to Krile, unphased by Bas’ir’s squirming. “See how he flounders at the slightest physical inconvenience. A mockery of his own creed. I say, this much is clear to each observer.”

Krile’s eyes danced between their faces and the stabler folks watching with mild reproach. “The only thing that’s clear here is that the two of you want for supervision,” she said. Sighing mightily for one so small, she took them both by the hand and tugged. Bas’ir scrambled to a standing position. “I am making the executive decision to remove you both from this celebration.”

The pair protested—loudly and repeatedly—but ultimately followed the Lalafell out of the room, shamefully slouching as if she’d grabbed them by their ears.

-

Krile walked ahead of the drunken fools, who’d apparently overcome their differences at some point on their journey down the hallway.

Bas’ir had his arm around Raha. “You are so beautiful,” he said. “I could...I could eat you.”

“Please do not.”

“I would not. But I could.”

Somehow, their drunken swaying evened out, so they could amble in a relatively straight line when linked. Krile checked every now and then over her shoulder. “Do you know where you are?”

“We’re missing the party,” Bas’ir said.

“The party, I am certain, is not missing you.” Krile set her gaze forward again. “Though I am proud of you two for carrying on this far without collapsing. My room is closer to the common room, but I have a feeling I would regret leaving you there on your lonesome…”

“Ah! This is _my_ room!” Raha said, pointing at a door not too far in the distance.

It was Bas’ir’s room. Krile rubbed her forehead. “Close enough. If I leave you here, will you stay and drink water?”

Both Miqo’te mumbled in agreement.

“Excellent.” A sinister thought painted her eyebrows. “And...and I trust you’ll get along?”

“All too well,” Bas’ir said.

Raha nodded. “Best of friends.”

Thus, Krile wrangled Bas’ir’s room key from him and opened the door. Her friends waddled in smelling absolutely toxic. She made sure they each had a full complement of Lalafell-approved beverages at the ready, helped them take their boots off, and urged them both onto the bed. Whatever happened next, she did not particularly want to be around for.

Silence, it turns out, is what happened next. A long bout of silence, spare the creaking of wood, cricket-song, and heavy breathing. The bed was large enough for both of them to spread their limbs without making contact, but sooner or later someone’s arm ended up on someone’s chest, someone’s ear flopped over another’s. And then:

“Raha…”

Bas’ir’s voice was husky and grave, so Raha answered in kind. “Yes?”

“How come...how come you’re such a right bastard?”

Raha groaned, tossed and turned himself to a kneeling position. He held a blanket like bat wings at his back. “Well, Bas’ir? Do you love me or do you not?”

The Keeper blinked and drunkenly wondered what kind of insect was trying to come up through his throat. “Yes.”

“That’s no proper answer. I’ve given you two options, old fool.”

“You’ve given me none.” This room was too tight, to say nothing of the clothes suffocating Bas’ir’s body. He ripped the scarf off, threw it who knows where. “The truth is I despissssse you.”

“Oh, is that right?” Raha’s hand moved to the first button of his shirt.

“That’s right.” Bas’ir squinted and gestured with his chin. “Well, keep going, then. Let me see that chest I loathe so completely.”

With a sneer, he unbuttoned. “So completely.”

“So utterly. Your form, your face...everything about you enrages me.” He leaned up and pulled his sweater over his head, shook out his ears. “The thought of being with you makes my heart flutter like the wings of some tiny, ugly bird.”

“Your words. Like the poetry you so admire.” The shirt fell off his shoulders. “Behold!”

“Gods! My eyes!” Bas’ir shielded himself with his forearm. His other hand fiddled at his belt, but couldn’t manage. “See, I’m shaking with rage.”

Raha lost his trousers. “Erotic rage!”

“Erotic enragement, yes, heavens!” Steadying both hands now, he unbuckled, unzipped, and shimmied his pants down to his knees. “The idea of spending my days, my life with you...how it makes me shudder.”

“Roll over, will you?” He held the band of his smallclothes down and let his cock bob free.

“Ah yes.” Bas’ir turned himself around and clawed preemptively at the pillows. “That _thing_ you wield at the hip. How it wounds me.”

“Let me.” He clapped his hands on Bas’ir’s ass and shifted closer, cornered his tongue at his lips.

“Oh I will. Only because of all men in this world, you’re the only one who makes me feel this way.” He buried his face in the pillow. “Disgusted, of course. Since I despise you so veritably.”

“Yes, of course.” He started pressing with his finger.

“Ah ta ta ta ta! By the gods, oil me, or I’ll tell you how I _really_ feel.”

Raha paused and thought about where he was, where he could find what he needed. The nightstand. Dick absentmindedly in hand, he shuffled over and retrieved the bottle. “Bas’ir,” he said.

The Keeper turned his head on the pillow, let himself breathe. “Yes?”

“I think I know how you _really_ feel.” He slicked his fingers, smirking, before plunging the first digit inside. Bas’ir tensed around him with a whimper. “I just don’t think you can look me in the eye and say it.”

The Keeper tried to focus on being stretched, tried to ignore the heat beneath his eyes. “Please, I beg you. Act less sober.”

Raha’s eyes felt heavy. “Liquid courage, so they say…” He yanked the base of Bas’ir’s tail before slipping another finger inside, toying with the embarrassing idea of slipping a ring on his finger someday instead.

The sex they had was ugly. Clumsy. For all their precise verbal dances, the drink helped them forget the steps to lovemaking and gave them opportunity to learn them all over again, this time in the wrong order. Hands ended up in strange places. Legs flopped everywhere. More clothes came off. They flipped each other and gave up words for growls and grunts. Bas’ir managed to come eventually, stroking himself when Raha rolled his hips against him fast enough. He shook and helplessly sullied his chest, the bed, his friend. It wasn’t a particularly _good_ orgasm—alcohol always numbed him—but it lasted for a long time. Not long enough for his companion, however, who fucked him ever faster before finally collapsing onto his wet chest, cackling.

I can’t come!” Raha said. “ Gods, I can’t come!”

Bas’ir threw his head back and yelled. “You _have_ to, or I’m going to explode!”

“I swear I can’t!” He spoke through fits of laughter, rubbing nose over sternum, missing the mess by luck alone. “I’ve tried everything...I’m...I’m going to die like this...”

“My poor, miserable creature. My poor quivering coil of love. Lust. Of lust.”

“Help me, won’t you?” Raha looked like a lost animal. “You must have a secret somewhere.”

It turns out he had several, but he thought one particular treatment would do in their place. The Keeper groaned and pushed his lover back, shuddering when Raha's dick slipped out. “I will try my best. Because of how I feel about you.”

“Yes.” Raha flattened himself upon the bed and tensed his legs. “Show me how you feel.”

Blushing, Bas’ir positioned himself over the throbbing point at Raha’s thighs and lowered himself upon it. It still felt good. Always would, he figured, to let his favorite person fill him. Once he’d taken everything in, he started moving. Though it burned his thighs, the reaction was immediate. The Seeker was all songs and hisses, gasps and groans. Every now and then he’d raise his head in a frenzy, like he was trying _not_ to come, and then he’d stare drunkenly at Bas’ir’s hard work before flopping back onto the bed and pressing his hips up.

Bas’ir wanted so badly to deliver. Whatever it took. He could not give this man the truth, but he knew how to be useful. That must have been the reason—the only reason—he leaned forward and took Raha’s ear between his teeth. “What do you want to hear from me?” He kept riding. His dick, by now half-hard again, rubbed against Raha’s formidable abdomen.

“The truth,” Raha said. “Once, at least. We’re drunk. I could very well forget.”

“Hmm.” He trailed from his ear to his neck and sucked. “This truth is unforgettable.” Then he bit.

Raha clasped his arms around the Keeper and held him hard, fucked him harder, before finally uncoiling inside. Beat by beat, pent up energy poured into him. It was a happy feeling, a feeling of relief for both of them. And it was _a lot_. Before Raha even pulled out, Bas’ir’s prize was dripping from his ass onto the covers.

Yes, Bas'ir was thankful Krile had taken them to his room instead of stowing them in hers.

But he was even more thankful he hadn’t had to say it.

"I have never come while drunk before," Raha said, sweeping his hands over Bas'ir's back. "You are a man of many talents."

The comment took the Keeper by surprise. He blinked and blinked, until he remembered Raha would be able to feel the nervous lashes on his chest. "Cleaning up will...be less than ideal."

"You will be okay." He held tighter. Held in a wholesome way with a wholesome smile on his face. The lust had been sucked out of him. The drunkenness had not. "You will be okay, Bas'ir."

"Hmm. Er..." Why wouldn't his heartbeat just _shut. Up._ Could hardly think with it blaring throughout his drunken body. Alcohol amplified each hit, but it couldn't drown out his affection. Not entirely. Nothing could. Never would. "You...you too?"

"I mean it." Straining, he pulled his head up and kissed the tip of Bas'ir's ear. "You're going to be okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so I think this one might be the longest now


	24. Twenty-three: Shuffle - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Twenty-three: Shuffle**  
>  Explicit. Ambiguous female Auri WoL. Same one from [What We Already Know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439155/chapters/50084984). I'll keep it simple: Aymeric gets pegged, and Estinien has a good time watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shuffle as in. Shuffle things up a bit, right? Shuffle positions. Like, you know. Like, fuck positions. Okay? It fits. Okay? It fits, I promise. Don't give me that look.

The Warrior of Light had fingered Aymeric de Borel before, but she hadn’t fucked him. Yet.

“Well, how do you feel?” the Lord Speaker said, balancing his head in his hand. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, naked and proud. At the end of the question, the line of his lips broke into a smile, one he tried to hide behind his fingers.

“I feel a bit ridiculous,” the Warrior said, hands at her hips, just above the black harness that held her new toy in place. It was as big as the average Elezen’s, which is to say _much larger_ than what might look somewhat natural on an Au Ra her size. “I don’t know how you lot do it.”

Estinien, who was reclining behind Aymeric wearing only a fresh white towel, chuffed. “Well, most of us don’t walk around perpetually at full-staff.”

“Most of us,” Aymeric said over his shoulder. He turned back and looked the Warrior up and down again, from toes, to tail, to tricky smile. Of course, he glanced once more at the thick tool she’d soon use on his backside, but even in such an intimate situation it felt rude to stare. “I think it suits you.”

“How flattering.” The Warrior stroked her new cock with a silly, daring look on her face. “And you?” She raised her chin at Estinien. “Your thoughts?”

He rolled his eyes to the window. Her expression was one he recognized; just days ago she’d worn it on her way into Ishgard with a new lance on her back. _Feel the weight, won’t you? Aye, I see the jealous look on your face._ Her latest acquisition wasn’t a weapon, per se, but with that sinister glint in her glowing eyes she certainly looked like she was ready to pierce something. “My thoughts aren’t the ones that matter here,” Estinien said.

“For now.” She pulled the piece up so it sat flat against her belly, then let it bob back into place.

Estinien watched it bounce and sighed. “For now.”

Eager as the Warrior was to put her piece to work, she took her time loosening Aymeric up. She leaned over him, and he leaned over Estinien, who had one hand on the back of the Lord Speaker’s head and the other at his dick. Sometimes he’d stroke himself. Sometimes he’d latch around Aymeric, too, and watch the blue of his eyes disappear beneath lusty lids. The Warrior was treating him well from behind. Estinien wasn’t _jealous_ —not of the physical attention she was giving his dear friend—but he did feel _something_. Blame it on the sex in the air. Anything but his _emotions_. He shifted his hips down and up. Aymeric had leaked enough precum to make Estinien’s hand glide easily over each of their heads now.

The Lord Speaker let his neck give out. Heat made his fingers flex. “I’m ready, love,” he said. “Quite ready.”

The Warrior snickered and applied another helping of oil to her cock, slicking it like she’d seen her lovers do before. Estinien couldn’t see her directly, but he read her actions through Aymeric’s face. As the ribbed head pushed inside, his lips tightened into a silent snarl, then a circle, then, as she pointed deeper, a breathy gasp.

“You like it?” the Warrior whispered.

“Yes,” Aymeric said. “It is...formidable.”

“You picked it out yourself. I should hope you know your own limits.” She traced his shoulder blades and eyed the Dragoon beneath him. “How’s it compare to Estinien’s?”

Aymeric laughed and looked at the man in question. “Move and I’ll begin preparing my full report.”

The entanglement proved fruitful. Each partner saw new angles and little truths they’d missed before. The Warrior liked how Aymeric’s back responded to her pressure; she’d change her pace or hit him harder to make his muscles move. He kept his eyes low, for the most part. He liked to move his hips so his dick lined up with Estinien’s...but he also liked to arch back and encourage the Warrior to learn more about his body and its most sensitive parts.

And Estinien tried his best to relax. Didn’t want to blush. Didn’t want to let on how much he was enjoying himself. Sometimes he’d chirp out half-meant orders in response to the Speaker’s wordless cries. “More, Dragoon,” he might say. "He's making too much noise." And Aymeric would laugh and grit his teeth when she gave _more_ to him.

They carried on for a while. Eventually, Aymeric flattened his chest against Estinien’s and wrangled an arm around his neck. “I’m embarrassed at how well she’s doing,” he said. “She’ll be a force of nature soon enough.”

Estinien wanted to chide his lover for offering so much praise. _All this will go straight to her head, you know._ It would’ve been easy to say if old memories hadn’t taken root in the back of his mind, memories from the Warrior’s earliest days as a Dragoon. When they had trained together. Explored each others’ bodies in private, sucked and tasted one another. When Aymeric raised himself on his arms again, Estinien was chewing on one scene in particular—he and the Warrior masturbating face to face, like they couldn’t figure out how to put their parts together. He had called her name and pounced on her to finish, spurted cum over the scales of her shoulders, the soft skin of her breasts, even lips to which he dared not touch his own.

How he wanted to mark her in more permanent ways.

Now Estinien looked at the Warrior. She was looking at him, too, smirking. As if she, too, remembered. As if Aymeric wasn’t there taking cock between them. Perhaps the First Brood connected them carnally, secretly, beneath the covers of their living history. Estinien gripped himself harder. Didn’t think about his own hand or how slick his tip was. Didn’t think about his wild eyes or his heartbeat. He thought of hunger. Hadn’t he taught her that, after all? How to _want_ to be _full?_ What was it he had said back then, before fucking her with his finger?

_You’re not off the hook, Dragoon._

Estinien’s eye started twitching. Then, with no tangible escalation, he came on Aymeric’s face.

Aymeric gasped. Estinien grunted, turned his head away, and rubbed himself to completion. He couldn't have stopped even if he wanted to, and he didn't.

“Something wrong?” the Warrior said, panting. She leaned over Aymeric’s sweat-laced back.

“No need to stop,” Aymeric said. “Estinien has given me, er...an unexpected gift.”

One Azure Dragoon groaned, the other cackled.

“I see!” the Warrior of Light said, darkly. While she reset her rhythm, Aymeric curled forward upon Estinien. Suspicion, now, called his fair face home. Estinien had no other name for it. The slant of the Lord’s brows was so severe it overshadowed the absurdity of having white specks on his chin and cheeks. He was a noble. A man with power. And power lived in his gaze.

Estinien loved him, but in those moments he couldn’t stand to look at him. One or both of them tasted the trouble. Knew it was worth talking about. But they didn’t talk. The Dragoon wrenched his arm around Aymeric’s neck and pulled. Kissed. Bit. He let the taste of his own seed drown out the ambiguous bitterness souring his tongue. The Lord relented. Whatever spirit lingered in the air, it couldn’t stop him from coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming to terms with the fact that I never got over Estinien


	25. Twenty-four: Beam - G

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Twenty-four: Beam**  
>  General. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. 5.3 spoilers. Alisaie has to track down the Warrior of Light and the newest member of the Scions so they can enjoy a day at the beach. She finds them...along with signs of trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SAFE FOR WORK!!! FROM ME!!!

Logically, there were only a few places they would've been, but Alisaie checked off every one of them before finally finding the men in question. From the ground, she spotted a tuft of russet fur poking over the high bridge in Revenant's Toll. Just a flash, but more than enough to tip her off and send her stomping up the stairs.

 _Half a morning wasted on the hunt for these buffoons_ , she thought. _We might as well pick another day._ She’d had high hopes upon waking; for the first time since their return to the Source, the Scions would take a _vacation._ A vacation! Just breathing the word gave her a second wind on her way to the top. On one hand, it was just a day trip to the beach. But on the other hand… _it was a day trip to the beach._ If she could just wrangle her comrades, the Scions at large would soon be on their way to the Moonfire Faire. Cool waters, colorful foods, and lights in the sky—of the non-Flood variety.

Today was supposed to be the day. Even _Alphinaud_ had risen half gracefully. To think that the Warrior of Light—savior of at least two stars, slayer of primals, legendary liberator—and the newest Scion—former Crystal Exarch, Archon of Sharlayan, Allagan heir—would jeopardize this prime opportunity for bonding, mirth, and merry—she was so ready to explode it never occurred to her that there could be trouble until she’d rounded the corner and come upon the missing pair.

G’raha was sitting with his back against the stone. Only his ears poked over the edge, and just barely. Bas’ir was curled upon his lap, eyes closed, a light blanket draped over his shoulders. The mid-morning sun beamed down upon them between shadows, highlighting Alisaie’s prize. “What is the meaning of this?” she said first, thought too late.

The Seeker’s ears popped over just as quickly as his finger hit his lips. The image (how it echoed his abandoned form on the First, severe, sturdy, protective) stopped her in her tracks. A viscous shame started clogging up her throat, like she’d broken a priceless porcelain dish that once belonged to her grandfather.

“'Tis all right,” G’raha said, beckoning her to approach.

“I’m sorry,” she said, words whispered, shoulders bending into a solemn curve. “Is he...he’s asleep?”

"Forgive me.” G’raha slipped his hand back onto Bas'ir's neck. "I should've left a note."

"A...note?" Alisaie stepped forward, spoke softer.

G'raha nodded once, his face gentle but heavy with a weight befitting one called Exarch, one so old and spiritually wizened. "He hasn't slept all night. For whatever reason, he managed to drift off here." Looking down, he traced the Warrior's hairline with the back of his index finger. “And I am not eager to wake him.

"Is something amiss? Is he ill?"

“Other than his exhaustion, he’s in perfect health.” The Exarch—no, _G’raha_ cocked his head and bore a sad smile. “I’m afraid this is not an isolated incident.”

A lofty breeze blew the Elezen’s braid over her shoulder. She shifted her weight onto one leg and stared at the tiny pile of man who’d apparently traded his bed for stone bricks. Here she was thinking they’d gone off and—well, who knows what? Deep down, a part of her had wondered, had _hurt_ at the idea that they’d rather spend all of their time together, rather than any with her. The words didn’t come easily. “I...I didn’t know. He’s always had trouble sleeping, hasn’t he?”

The Seeker nodded. “For as long as I’ve known him.” He stretched his back and resettled both of his hands at his lover’s neck. “Many nights I...have found him in various states of consciousness, laboring under lingering anxieties and apprehensions.”

She rubbed her hand across her lips. “Is...is the beach a bad idea, then?”

“I don’t think the beach is a bad idea.” His slitted eyes darted down as Bas’ir shifted, but did not wake. Then back to Alisaie. “Perhaps you and our comrades should depart ahead of us. Our friend has developed a problem common among those who share similar burdens. That is to say...relaxing itself has become a burden.”

She thought of another man who could’ve fit into the same mold and clenched her fist. “I see…”

“We can join you later this afternoon. I think he’ll have an easier time enjoying himself once he’s slept a few more bells.”

“I…” _Don’t want to be a burden._ But she didn’t say it. Instead, she nodded and straightened her back. “I shall inform the others and...and _you_ had better make sure he rests well enough for some hearty seaside competition.”

G’raha smiled. “I shall do my utmost.” She turned her back and started making for the stairs, when he called her name again. “And Alisaie?”

She looked over her shoulder in answer.

“Thank you.”


	26. Twenty-five: Wish - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Twenty-five: Wish**  
>  Teen. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. The Warrior of Light leaves Aymeric in the middle of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had been considering putting a scene like this in TYKTY when we get there, but I will either creatively write around it, or...make this not canon and put something new therein.

"Aymeric."

He had thought about leaving with nothing more than a silent press of his lips. Considered squeezing gentle hands that squeezed back with muscle memory. He had been left that way before, and since then grown only more accustomed to violence. But the sound of that man's breathing, deep and inevitable like rolling ocean waves, made him do the hard thing and speak. Tonight he would let at least one secret go, though certainly not his most painful.

"Aymeric," Bas'ir Bahani said again. On his back he carried a small pack of odds and ends. He'd left many things at the Lord Speaker's manor over the past few months, years. A ripped sweater. A collection of pens. Two old scarves, both dull and fraying at each end. He would leave only items with good stories behind them, hoping Aymeric might someday be capable of stumbling upon some forgotten belt buckle and smiling, holding it tighter, remembering. _This is the one he threw onto the balcony to awaken me that night._ Now Bas'ir tried once more to awaken Aymeric, for an equal, inverse occasion.

Aymeric _was_ awake but he didn't want to be. If he pretended to be asleep, perhaps Bas'ir would pick another night to leave him. Or better yet—wouldn’t leave at all. A selfish and embarrassing thought. If the Warrior of Light _had_ to leave, Aymeric wanted to have room for his own explanations, for better or worse. _He could never settle down. I ask too much of him. His calling is beyond me. There's someone better for him elsewhere._

But he couldn't ignore the summons, not even to preserve his own dignity.

Bas’ir was sucking in another gulp of air when Aymeric stirred, long lashes flickering like distant stars. Their togetherness was so instinctual, the Miqo’te didn’t hesitate to trace the curl of dark hair along his cheekbone, gloved hand to skin blushing in the blue of night. That face had a weight, a pull, a gravity. Bas’ir pulled himself from orbit when he felt his fingers wrap around the back of Aymeric’s neck instead, when he felt his knees hit the ground and heard his heart in his throat. “Aymeric,” he said, now into the supernatural warmth of the man’s icy gaze.

“My dear.” Aymeric answered like he knew it was the last time he could say it.

The floorboards called the Keeper. Too good at keeping his eyes locked on unimportant places. There was a whole man before him, one who deserved every onze of attention he could muster. “I wish I...didn’t have to do this,” he said, lifting his chin, failing to open his eyes. As punishment, memory berated him for even getting this far. How could he discount the nights they spent stargazing together? The Lord’s secret trip to Gridania? Their first and only dance? _You think you deserve better?_ “I’m going away for a while. For a long while.”

It wasn’t the approach Aymeric expected. He hinted up in bed and rolled his neck. The sleek cover slipped from his shoulders. “How...where are you going?”

He knew he shouldn’t say. “Aymeric…”

“How can I reach you?” He grabbed Bas’ir’s left arm, ilms above the brace to which his prosthetic attached. The Elezen didn’t want to taste so desperate, but he would fight for every touch he could get. In the past, he had been known to fight less often than he should have.

“As ever, the Scions will be able to call on me. Carry messages as needed.”

“And I trust you will be careful? As you travel to this faraway place.”

Bas’ir almost started. _I never said it was faraway._ But it was. He dragged the distance in his voice, surely. “You will see me again in one piece. Or…” He waved his mechanical fingers. “Two, as it may be.”

Aymeric softened and let go, spread his fingers on the sheet. His was an empty hand. “I’m looking forward to that day.”

Bas’ir made the hand unempty, setting his own upon it. The man was too good to be left staring at the space between his fingers, at wrinkles on his bed. “As am I. Aymeric.”

“Bas’ir.”

Here is where the kiss should’ve gone. There was enough time to be wasted, time to be filled, silence to be broken with another night of breathing exercises. The Lord’s lips pulled stronger now, stronger than they had before. Inviting and familiar. It would be easy to taste them one more time, even if the act made forgetting the flavor harder.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Bas’ir had to stop it before it was too late. Aymeric winced when he saw the Warrior pull away, wiping his brow. “You have been a shield when I needed shields,” Bas'ir said. “A friend when I needed friends.” One aching breath later, yellow eyes broke night’s cold colors again and stared with new, stinging resolve. “Now I am calling you a diplomat.”

Aymeric lowered his head this time and let the first raw wave wash over him. He could keep calm. Just one of his many talents. “This will not be easy for me,” he said. “Though I am fully aware you have never been mine to claim.”

“Nor you mine. Your time. Your attention. It has helped me in more ways I could ever articulate.”

Aymeric shook his head, frowning. “Don’t. You don’t have to—”

“I want to _thank_ you.”

“You oughtn’t thank me for doing as I pleased.” Aymeric’s lip twitched. “You’re more than something broken, waiting to be fixed.”

“I know that.” Bas’ir held his head higher. His thin eyebrows steepled on his forehead. “Not in small part for your presence.”

Aymeric would accept that. He had no choice but to embrace it, to absorb this explanation; The Warrior of Light had grown roots that no longer thrived in his soil, branches that blossomed past the garden wall. Who was he to tell a plant not to flower? To water it, nourish it, and expect it not to produce fruit?

Bas’ir left Ishgard chewing his lip, convinced this was the only decision he had ever made in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Lefane, stop making your WoLs break up with Aymeric" how else am _I_ supposed to put a ring on that fine piece of man, brother?


	27. Twenty-six: When Pigs Fly - M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Twenty-six: When Pigs Fly**  
>  Mature. Ambiguous male WoL. The Warrior of Light toils with the impossible idea that G'raha Tia might not just be a friend with benefits—but a friend. Or more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not super long. Sexuality is brief but rather explicit so...be warned...!

G'raha was always an impossibility. Five whole senses, and all you could do was hammer that down. Call it synergy, but there comes a time when good after good _after good_ makes a man believe two plus two equals five and two plus two _plus two_ equals nothing at all.

You know what they say about things that seem too good to be true.

He’s sunrise/sunset majesty, untouchable even when he touches you. You can hold him in your arms, be held in turn and still believe it’s some consequence of nature. A thoughtless, inevitable process like gravity. You can feel him in your bed, feel the warmth he leaves behind. Feel warmer when he rounds the corner with a tray of tea—yet call it platonic.

Always impossibly platonic. Always possible to write off.

You grew up in different worlds. What do you know of his tribe, of his early days? Did he cut his teeth in combat from a young age? Was his homeland warm and welcoming? Did his comrades, his brothers and sisters greet him with a gentle touch of the arm and twisting tails? Did they know him by his scent, like you do? Was his first lover loved by something other than warm, mismatched eyes and a smile that looked like, tasted like home?

You tell yourself you are reading into what others might take for affection. You’re the Warrior of Light, and G’raha will return to his colleagues with tales of wonder, adventure, and intrigue. What you say in bed will wind up in his lips, live on in their minds, get passed down with colorful exaggerations, come out in tabloids.

It has happened before.

G’raha. An impossibility. Since when were you the kind of man who denies himself what he wants and might have? What’s pleasure without the pain of loss to sweeten it? He is your temporary lover, even when his lust shares love’s shadow.

Even when he leaves letters for you at the Seventh Heaven and the bartender catches you on your way out. Even when you round the corner before easing each envelope open out of sight, and you smile like he packaged the glimmer of his gaze. Even when your hearts skips a beat if he isn’t lounging with a book in your shared tent at the Find. Even when a simple sigh seduces you after a long day, a short day, a bell away from a man hopelessly on your mind.

Impossible. For him to love someone like you. Even when he's thick in your ass and hot on your neck. When he’s shaking and taut with tension, on the verge of release, when he asks if he can come inside even though the answer is always _gods yes_.

It doesn’t make it love. Not for him, and maybe not for you either. Even if he tastes different than every other man you’ve had, and the aftertaste keeps you up at night with questions.

“Hey,” he says from the other side of the tent. You thought he was sleeping, but apparently he’s alert and aware of your alertness. “Are you planning on closing your eyes any time soon?”

You roll over and muster a half-baked snicker. “Something on your mind?”

“Just entertaining thoughts about what might be on _yours_.” He sits up on his cot. In the darkness, his tail is a wisp of red. “Would you sleep better with company?”

“Banish the thought.” You scoot to the far side of the cot and lift the covers. The next instant he’s crawling in and his skin is on your scars, all soft and electric and warm. “I don’t know why you bother asking at this point…”

“‘Tis a courtesy I extend to any and all with whom I’d share a bed.” He weasles his tail through the space between your elbow and your waist and presses his backside up against you. “Though, my friend, perhaps it is time I extend more than courtesy for you.”

Surely he can hear your heart upon him.

“Which is to say,” he continues, “I _would_ extend more.Though perhaps presenting myself as anything more than a...than a—”

“Don’t say it.” You take a chance and hold him tighter. “Whatever you’re thinking. Don’t say it.”

“I wouldn’t presume myself to be more than—”

“I think of you more than I ought to admit.” You laugh into the back of his neck. “And here I am admitting it…”

_Impossible._

G’raha arches into you and clasps his hands at his collarbone. “I’ll admit I...wouldn’t mind hearing more about it.”

But here words will fail you as your senses have before. All night long, your words tell you it will never happen, when your lips are capable of kissing it into existence. So instead of expounding in those moments, you hold him, keep him by his nape and close your eyes until you start to believe it might be real after all.


	28. Twenty-seven: Free Day 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Twenty-seven: Free Day 4**  
>  Explicit. Specific male WoL. Bas'ir Bahani. Continued from Muster. The Warrior of Light confronts the (pre-reveal) Crystal Exarch about what some might call untoward behavior...and said behavior escalates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hasty finish but that's just how things are when you haven't FUCKLED in [?????] years

The Scions filtered out of the Ocular, and silence filtered in.The Exarch stood before his portal, waiting for the Warrior of Light to click into place behind him. During the meeting, Bas’ir Bahani had been mulling around the edges of the room with a dark shadow on his brow. He spoke little, which could only mean he was saving his words for whatever was to follow. When the sound of heels ceased, the Tower’s keeper turned around and opened his mouth.

Bas’ir spoke first. “I’ve come to accept your apology,” he said, crossing his arms. Fully covered and clothed, he looked almost wholly symmetrical at the center of the room—legs shoulder length apart, old scarf lined up with his sternum, duster static at his back. It painted bright targets upon what unevenness lingered. He couldn’t keep his left eye all the way open, and even with gloves concealing his fingers, the metal of his left arm had a _weight_ to it. The heaviness hinted at a truth Bas’ir was _certain_ the Exarch could remember with his own eyes—or at least the eyes of the man whose body he borrowed.

“My apology?” the Exarch said. Crystal fingers nipped at his neckline. Bas’ir weighed the gesture’s familiarity and tightened his fists. This, too, could be an act—an attempt to mimic humanness. _His_ humanness in particular. But by then so many years had passed, he could hardly judge whether the act was any good at all.

_Besides. How seldom was G’raha Tia nervous and picking at his collar?_

Whatever this was, it was personal. A haunting for him and him alone. The question now became whether to believe in ghosts. “Yes,” Bas’ir said, lilting. “Your behavior in my quarters was most untoward. Do not think me so _feeble_ in my light-addled state as to forget what transpired.”

A hum picked up in some distant corner of the Tower. The Exarch remained silent for so long that Bas’ir wondered whether that would be his answer. Alternatively, some blasphemous force of technology could charge and strike him where he stood. Crisp him or wipe his memory, one. Nothing happened until the Keeper, straight-backed and motionless, started to feel like a solemn warning to trespassers, a defiant body brooding in stone.

“I am sorry,” the Exarch said, enunciating each syllable like a leader.The affect faded as he continued. “I shall make no excuses. My conduct was unbecoming.”

“You asked me if I…” Bas’ir shook his head and hand in time, rolling his eyes. “You asked me if I bite.”

The Exarch pulled his lips over his teeth. “I—”

“You.” The Warrior’s heel clicked as he stepped forward once, sneering. “Don’t let me get close enough to smell you now, Exarch. Then I’ll know for certain what you are.”

It was heavy enough to pull the leader’s head down, but even then his silhouette belied the true measure of his mettle. “What if I told you you could never know? Would you believe me?” Spoken like a god would slap his hand away from the monster he prodded. “Would you still bare your fangs?”

The tip of Bas’ir’s tail rose a full fulm from its resting place. His nostrils flared as his silver tongue misfired into silence ten too many times. Where to start? Where to point? What to _feel_ about it? He could scarcely believe this man, this question mark, had won the trust of his fellows. Needed to say something. Needed to drown out his heartbeat. “I...do you...are you challenging me?”

“I must have misspoken.”

“Do you _misspeak_ to my comrades in this way? To your people?” He waved his hands to the side. “What must you think you know of me?”

“I know enough”—the leader’s voice returned—”to know you are capable of saving my world and yours.” He stepped away from the portal and held his staff with both hands now. “But...I would know more.”

“Thus you entertain me with an impromptu…” _Dental exam,_ he wanted to snide but...couldn’t. “You would know more of me. In exchange for what, precisely? You and I both know I’m not here for mirth and merriness.”

“I know.” One hand fell from the staff. Flexed. Closed on itself. “‘’Tis selfish to ask anything more of you. I hope my actions have not made you feel unwelcome...nor your efforts unappreciated. We of the First—and those on the Source alike—are lucky to have a a boundless strength like yours among our numbers.”

“Hmph. I am not so eager to die that I will stand before a strung bow if I’ve time to duck my head.”

The Tower’s humming clicked off. Either Bas’ir had grown used to the ambiance, or this place was quieter than his memory would have had him believe, if indeed the two structures were one in the same. He was ready to perform one last jab, chasing something neither hand could grasp, before the light careened within him.

“Bas’ir!”

The Warrior registered two truths simultaneously: he’d hit the floor on his left, crystal hard against metal, metal hard against his side—and the Exarch had rushed forward, casting his staff aside. Through the pain of spirits roiling inside and about him, his yellow eyes seared with determination. An opportunity. A sin. A deft maneuver—

-

The Warrior’s reaching hand hit G’raha’s nape, fingertips to hidden russet hairline, thumb to glassy cheek. His first instinct was to flinch back, but the hand, though intrusive, was gentle; he knew it would do no more harm than it already had. Besides, there were more important things at stake.

Bas’ir’s chest heaved more heavily than the Exarch thought possible, like a half-man monster fudging the boundaries of what men looked like. Through whatever pain plagued him, the Miqo’te smiled and laughed at every outward breath. “Now I’m…” he said, coughing. “I’m the one...touching you.”

G’raha feigned calm, though he couldn’t stop the hairs on the back of his neck from standing, something that normally wouldn’t be a problem so long as his hood remained unbreached. “Are you all right, my friend?”

“Ha!” He coughed another beat and rolled over onto the Exarch’s lap, letting go. “ _My friend._ " Words he spit onto the floor. "I make sure people can only touch me how I want them to.”

G’raha deflated and let the man’s easing figure fill his gaze. Bas’ir faced the ground, his chest to G’raha’s thighs. Despite everything, he missed that weight and wasn’t sure he could stop himself from striking the match of nostalgia. “I would be remiss if I did not indicate I am capable of making the same assurance.”

“Heh.” The Warrior set a hand to the ground and lifted himself before dropping again on the Exarch’s lap. “Yet you haven’t thrown me across the room.”

“I would not.”

“You’d not abandon me, then?”

“Certainly not in your time of need.” But he had. Once. “Never.”

Bas’ir sigh-hummed and rested upon him for a ten-count, twenty-count. The wave was over. “Well, you’re either a liar or...certainly no one I’ve ever met.”

The words echoed loud enough that the Exarch worried his companion would hear them clamoring about between his eyes. He was disgusted with himself. In all possible pasts, he’d have sealed himself in the Tower, but his present was the only one born of such ugly an ugly truth. He hadn’t even stayed long enough to see the bandages removed. To see Bas’ir’s eyes open again. To tell him what he should’ve told him—what he’d never be able to tell him now.

Bas’ir shuffled away and resat himself with his legs crossed, face turned away. “Now I’ll ask for your forgiveness.” His voice was low and ugly. “I’ve taken up far too much of your time. Wasted my own, as well. Each moment is, apparently, precious in my condition.”

The Exarch exchanged glances with imaginary ghosts at his side before coming to terms with the fact that only _he himself_ could pass judgment on his decision to creep forward and press his forehead against Bas’ir’s neck. And judgment came swiftly. _You will doom yourself. You will doom your star, his star._ But his fate wasn’t sealed until the Warrior leaned into the contact and sighed so musically the Bard of years past shone through.

“You’ve found one of those moments,” he said. “Right now I don’t really care who you are.”

“Bas’ir…”

“We’re alone and...well, as far as I can tell we’ve each been lonely, too.”

“Tempt me not.”

The Warrior loosened his scarf but paused before taking it off. “Tempt _you?_ Would you ask me to _bite_ and leave air between my teeth?”

He started grinding his _own_ teeth now. “No…”

“Then…” He pulled the scarf off now and slid it across the floor. “Give me something to hold onto.” Shadow-shrouded like the empty gaps of history, he peered over his shoulder. “I’ll show you how I want people to touch me.”

-

This was horrendously stupid. Bas’ir was perfectly capable of touching himself. He must have really been going mad to think the Crystal Exarch would be the shortest distance between two points. Now there was _no_ distance between them. This entanglement came with conditions, some spoken, others implied: Bas’ir would be touched and sometimes touch in return, but the hood would remain. Right there on the floor of the Ocular, Bas’ir invited that hand once more into his mouth and leaned forward onto his arms, inviting the _Exarch_ to show him how hard he was from behind.

The Exarch accepted and gingerly pressed his hips forward, gasping despite the layers separating heat from heat.

Bas’ir smiled around the pair of prodding fingers between his lips. He sucked before using his right arm to guide them out. “Been a while, Exarch?”

He twitched inside his robes. “I...I…”

“I must admit I’m a man with more experience than most, for better or worse. If you will let me, I can ease your loneliness in many ways.”

He cleared his throat. “Let me ease yours.”

Blushing, he pressed the Exarch’s hand to his chest and guided him down and under the hem of his sweater. This one, the hand of flesh, was warm and familiar. The leather bands tickled on his way to practiced pectorals, to one hard nipple then the next. Bas’ir swallowed and tilted his hips back, shivering when he felt the Exarch flex against his ass. “Your other hand, please.”

“My…? You would have my…?”

“You think _I_ give a damn about your arm’s composition? Perhaps someday you’ll be lucky enough to see mine.”

“It’s...it’s a bit clumsy,” the Exarch said.

“So am I when drunk.” He leaned forward on his elbows and arched. “I just...I want you.”

“Ah. Oh…very well.” Crystal stretched around his body and pried first beneath the sweater.

“N-no,” Bas’ir said, making quick work of his own belt. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting the crystal to feel like, but beneath his own guiding hand it felt cool but vital. Capable of warmth. “Here.” The Exarch hesitated before finally dipping into those trousers and instinctively gripping what he found. Bas’ir shook his tail from base to tip, choking a tiny purr, breathing circles with his breath. “I...I think you know what to do next.”

-

G’raha did and didn’t. On one hand, he’d found his own length in a precarious place, making an ambitious attempt to burst through his own robes, the seat of the Warrior’s pants, and _into_ him. But on the other hand—well, both of his hands—he was perhaps capable of performing some tiny, once-impossible favor—or of dooming himself and everyone he had ever loved. Including—?

“Exarch,” Bas’ir said. “I can feel you. I would have you, if...if that is your preference. Just _gods_ don’t leave me waiting.”

His eyes rolled high beneath fluttering lids at the idea of _actually inserting himself_ , but that was simply out of the question. Too many risks, when he was already risking so much. Without words, he pinched the Warrior’s nipple with one hand and ringed around his dick with the other. To his dismay, or pleasure, each time he slipped over that slick head, Bas’ir edged back further. And the obscene sounds he made would surely resonate forever. The world could forget, but the Tower would remember. And so would G’raha, while he was still capable of holding memories. This place was purified with new lust. Corrupted with hidden feelings.

“Faster,” Bas’ir said. “Exarch.” And G’raha wished he was saying _G’raha_ instead, carrying all its curses on lips he wished could close around him, hold his seed and swallow. But this one, this man would remember the taste. For all that had changed, that truth was as static as the endless light of Norvrandt.

He must’ve done something Bas’ir liked, for he cried out and reared back so hard G’raha thought he might pop, but neither man came. Shaking, the cloaked Miqo'te pulled his hand out from Bas’ir’s sweater and shoved it down the back of his pants instead. Another cry and another curl of the Warrior’s bristling tail. It didn’t take him long to find what he sought and float his fingers upon it.

“Do it,” Bas’ir said, hitting his fist on the floor.

He did. For all he had ever known, all he had loved and forgotten, he remembered where to press and how hard to press it. Tongue between his teeth, the Exarch clawed at Bas'ir's throat and curled his fingers inside him again and again and again until he heard liquid hit the floor of the Ocular. He had done it, then. Some contract was sealed or broken. And now, over the final gasps of the Warrior's climax, a tear slid down G'raha's cheek and hit the corner of a bittersweet smile. Tasting salt, he continued toying with the idea of how much he wanted to be tasted.


	29. Twenty-eight: Irenic - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Twenty-eight: Irenic**  
>  Explicit. Ambiguous WoL, second-person. Aymeric's cat wakes him from a pleasant dream, and there's something he must do before returning to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh, me? Yeah of course I found a way to lewd "irenic."

Aymeric dreams of fingers, yours, and buttons, his, coming undone. You’ve been gone so long—for all the right reasons—but now you’re here and racing to reintroduce his parts to your parts, your _part_ to _his_. Where you are doesn’t matter. Could’ve been stripping by a stream or finding friction before half of Ishgard. Dreams don’t care about that if it’s not something that could keep you up at night. Keep you from dreaming. With all the anxieties that occupy the Lord Speaker’s mind, how can he worry about public scandals when you are nowhere near enough to practice indiscretion with him?

No, what wakes him is a crash in the waking world. In his addled ignorance, he stumbles out from his covers and onto the cold wooden floor, loosing your name into the night as in summoning. But this summoning you cannot answer. The dream’s grip unwinds and leaves him balanced with two knees and one hand on the ground. The cat saunters over and nuzzles him without judgement. That’s when he realizes the space around his writing desk is coated in dirt and bits of glass, his blossoming plant the primary victim. His shoulders relax and a tired chuff makes it out of his mouth. “You old fool,” he says, offering a scratch to the naughty feline. “Had me half panicked.”

The creature purrs and Aymeric pulls himself off the ground. The moon is sprinkling light through the window. He’s awoken at a precious time meant for lovers and spirits and mischief. If he opened the door, secrets would surely come pouring in, and his own intimate truths might pour out.

Dazed, he drifts to your favorite chair by the balcony. You used to sit there after every bath and let him brush your hair. Even now, he realizes leaning over, he can smell familiar soaps and fragrances. He presses his nose into the petals and inhales. The fabric masks the haze of days gone by. You may not be there, but you have grown beneath his skin without permission. You, an anchor for the dream that’s followed him across the room—a root he would nourish, a vine he would wrap around his ring finger.

But he has not dreamt of meeting you chastely at the end of the aisle. Not tonight. He must bring peace to the body that burns around him. He must try not to think of the battles you have gone to fight yourself, battles that don’t have you fishing around between your legs.

He’s sleepy about it, calm when he slips his hand into his smallclothes and explores like a stranger. Been a while. He likes to pretend he doesn’t know what he’s doing, like he’s physically asking a question instead of accomplishing some dirty task. And he doesn’t move his torso from the chair. What lingers of you is too powerful, even in moderation. The remnants of your purity will lead him into lust.

He breaths. He hardens. He trails from base to head, thumbs his leaking slit and breaths again. _You._ Out there somewhere, but here as well. Unliving, lingering evidence of you. _Dream harder_ some voice commands, and he opens his mouth in answer. If he could taste you, take your nipples between his lips instead of tapping his tongue to his own furniture when he forgets himself—he wouldn’t have to worry about stomaching emotions afterwards.

Still bent over, he bends his knees, too, and slips his other hand between his legs to give his balls an experimental squeeze. For a while he keeps his first hand still and uses his hips to fuck his fingers’ grip instead. It’s a poor supplement for your body, but there’s something filling about it on a primal level. To enter something, even a construction of calloused palms, to thrust _into_ rather than _stroke_. He breathes again, burns more. Has to extinguish this. Can’t sleep with the light on.

He could think of fucking you. He could think of your wet lips tugging on his prick. Or he could just breathe. And breathe. How long will your scent linger? Will he grow desperate enough to latch onto this activity, to develop a habit? He’s too close to think about it. He furrows his brow and works past the blooming pain in his thighs. The chair squeaks across the floor once, twice, three more times until he rears his center back and back—then _forward_ , hard, in time with the first hot rush of cum, spurting to the center of his palm. He flushes and watches himself finish, winces when he can’t hold everything, when some of what he’s offered drips onto his thigh, onto the floor.

Now he breathes again. Deeper. Calmer. The fire is out and now he’s got the aftermath to deal with. The Lord is not above cleaning up after himself, but as for falling back to sleep...it would be a much easier task with company.


	30. Twenty-nine: Paternal - M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Twenty-nine: Paternal**  
>  Mature. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. The Warrior of Light takes some time off to do work some might call sordid. At least one person isn't too happy with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After Bas'ir breaks up with Aymeric, this is what he's up to
> 
> Consensual sex work discussed herein, but there isn't anything explicit

“What would your father think?”

Bas'ir's ears perked back. He was tapping a tin of paper parasols at a corner stall in Kugane. The man who spoke, though several yalms away, spoke like he could be speaking to no one else. The Keeper turned around and clasped his gloved hands at the lap of his floral yukata, blinking preemptively with reproach.

The jeering man stood out for a number of reasons; aside from being a foreigner, he was the only person who wasn't minding his own damn business. Even the woman at his side had averted her gaze in embarrassment. Both were Elezen, most likely Ishgardian based on accent and affect, but they wore the type of clothes visitors often donned to "blend in" with local crowds. Robes with misfitted sleeves, sashes somewhat sloppily tied, collars dipping _scandalously_ low on their backs—a perfectly acceptable impression for tourists who actually respected those who called Kugane home. The man had his arms crossed and his feet set shoulder-width apart.

Bas'ir sighed and continued picking at the parasols. _What would my father think? Hmph. Which one?_ He thought first of Nero, who might've raised an eyebrow at Bas'ir's newfound profession, before sneering and joking about giving his mechanical arm a few new performance-boosting features. Then, more quietly, he would inquire about his health and well-being, ask if anyone's given him trouble. _On occasion,_ Bas'ir might answer, _but given the rest of my resume I have found myself most capable of handling would-be tormentors._

When he thought of Cid—of the Scions in general—he couldn’t be as certain. Regardless of their tolerance for his second hiatus from heroing, he wasn’t sure they would have refrained from stopping him had they the option. They didn’t want to talk about it. So long as they were able to pretend, when prompted, that Bas’ir _wasn’t_ selling his body on the other side of the world, they were happy enough to let him do it.

As for his biological father, well...Bas’ir tried his best to avoid thinking of him in general if at all possible. But little reminders, just like the overbearing, sensitive warrior-man himself, always seemed to pop up at the most unusual times.

"You're a disgrace," the Ishgardian said, ignoring Bas'ir's attempt to ignore him. "How many lives have you ruined, then? Marriages rent asunder?" His female companion tugged at his sleeve and said something too quiet to make its way across the street. He shrugged her off. “Of course it’s him. Look at the gloves.”

The Keeper closed his eyes. This sort of behavior would not long go tolerated on the streets of Kugane. Whatever Ishgardians may have thought about sex workers (which privately, as it turns out, may not have been so different from what the Hingans thought), an ocean away was not the place to spew it at quiet strangers. Sooner or later, some bystander would find a way to accost the man and draw his attention away from his target...and if a subtle attempt at diversion did not prove fruitful, there were plenty of people ever ready to knock ijin down a peg. “Bless your little heart,” Bas’ir said. “You couldn’t help but pack your insecurities along for your little Hingan adventure.”

“What you do is disgusting,” he said, shaking his head. “That you have the nerve to walk these streets...your very presence cheapens all that is noble about this land.”

Bas’ir’s bored eyebrows ticked up a tad. “Forgive me, is this personal?” He swept his long hair over his shoulders. Little did this buffoon know that Bas’ir, under a different name, was responsible in some ways _not just_ for the liberation of his own country, but the very reason travel to the East had become so accessible in the first place. “Consider whether an honorable fancy man is the one you ought to be hassling.”

“We don’t want to make a scene,” the woman said, not to Bas’ir or her partner, but to marketgoers who were beginning to exchange looks of mild concern with one another.

“Oh, I’ll make a scene.” The man tried and failed to roll up the sleeves of his robe before stepping forward and into a bystander’s well-timed forearm.

“Everything all right, friend?” the new stranger said. A black-haired Hyur wearing a straw hat. His voice was friendly, and his eyes expressed the muted promise of threat.

The Elezen shrugged the arm away and shook his head. “This is the man who—were it not for him, my family would—”

“Families destined for destruction will destroy themselves,” Bas’ir said. “My chosen profession and I have nothing to do with it.” He set payment on the shopkeeper’s counter and grabbed a parasol at random. When he unfurled it, two cranes curled around a rim of decorative reeds and lilies. The base color was a light, swampy blue. Bas’ir started walking, the new weight light on his shoulder, lighter even than this incident would be on his conscience.

But as he turned the corner, he couldn't help but remember his late mother and her ungraceful departure from Ishgard, and of another man who may have once considered himself Bas'ir's father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tfw TYKTY is still at pre-Bas'ir's-father-is-unveiled time
> 
> HE HAS A LoT OF...DADLY CONNECTIONS...YOU'LL SEE...


	31. Thirty: Splinter - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Thirty: Splinter**  
>  Explicit. Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. Third and final part to the Muster/Free Day 4/Splinter trilogy. Hooded Exarch shenanigans. The Warrior of Light has received something from the Crystal Tower's keeper, and now he offers something in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may get a little weird :)

Bas’ir was panting. Cold from sweat. If he hadn't seen it himself, felt it throughout his whole body, he may have written it off as another half-dream. But no. Quite verily, he had come upon the regal floor of the Ocular. With the Exarch's curled fingers still inside him, he stared at his own leaking head and clenched his teeth to cut off a whimper.

He wanted to speak and explain himself, to iterate any reason he was just a pent-up warrior with the same base interests as any other man, but two truths tempered his biting tongue: firstly, he was coming to terms with the fact that he was capable of chasing the past as long as he blindfolded himself beforehand. He was willing to accept, to _ask for_ pleasure from a shade of someone he had once loved—someone who had hurt him, someone who hurt to think about—as long as he could lie and tell himself he would take the same intimacy from anyone. Secondly, _it felt very, very good._

Because it had been a while since someone else got him off? Because it was him? Or because it was anyone?

"You are...sly with your tricks," Bas'ir said, arching on the Exarch's hand, half-committed to holding it in place and shooting for another round. "As though you know what I'd have asked you for next."

The Exarch started, stopped, started again. He must have had at least as many words swirling beneath his cowl as Bas’ir had in his head. Couldn’t pick just one. “I’m...glad,” he finally said, “you haven’t found me lacking.”

“You _can_ let go of my neck now,” Bas’ir said. “If you want. Unless perhaps…” He could’ve chewed his own heart it was so high in his throat. “You have changed your mind about developing this engagement further.”

The answer came too quickly in the form of the Exarch's choking hand of crystal slipping over Bas’ir’s shoulder. The fingers of flesh lingered for a tense ten-count more before retreating ilm by ilm, bending at the last moment then twisting out entirely. Bas’ir’s gasp echoed against those ancient walls when he was empty again. “Sorry,” Exarch said. Quiet. Unpowerful. Embarrassed.

“Why?” A shiver worked through his tail. “I liked it. I...would make myself useful to you, if you would allow me.” Yes, he had made the offer already, and even as his fingers fumbled at his buckle he wondered if there were a proper way to extend himself a third time. If only he could say _I know. You don’t have to hide this body from me. My eyes are figuratively closed even as they are literally open._ But he couldn’t. Wasn’t strong enough to start the first sentence, much less finish it. Kneeling with his back still turned to his impromptu partner, he cleared his throat and eyed the scarf he’d tossed halfway across the room. “I can...I can clean up, then. And be on my way for now. Exarch."

A weight dropped then on Bas’ir’s shoulder, a hand. The pleasure-weak Keeper nearly buckled over. He hadn’t even noticed the Exarch standing and now he had heavy fingers at his collarbone and a wobbling voice in his ears. “I would have you,” the Exarch said, clenching harder, so hard the implicit _but_ never came out. But he did step forward.

Bas’ir kept his eyes down and turned his head back. This man was battling something. Perhaps he’d get his chance. “I will understand if you reject my advances,” he said. "After all, though I am...drawn to you, I can hardly say I trust you. I oughtn't expect you to trust me for anything but my aim."

“I should go no further.” The Exarch let go and stiffened his arms at his sides. Even through three layers of fabric, his erection was plain enough to see. He must've been speaking to himself more than he was speaking to the Warrior of Light. “Not after...everything I’ve—”

“I can close my eyes, Exarch. If that makes you more comfortable. Blindfold me.” Bas’ir shuffled his body around now. He was so close to what he wanted. Mouth open, his tongue hovered beneath white fangs. “I would not find that disagreeable, if you find it agreeable.”

The Exarch whipped his head to the side like he’d been slapped. His voice was a low, grinding sound. “I find you more agreeable than I ought to admit.”

“Heh.” Bas’ir blushed and ran his tongue across his fangs, wearing a crooked smile. “Just once I’ll do what you ask without complaining.”

-

G’raha wanted him so badly he didn’t care if he complained. And now, through some sick turn of fate, he was actually considering how far he _might_ go. Couldn’t undress. Even covering the Keeper’s eyes seemed unwise. Fabric could be fickle. Perhaps some kind of glamour would work...but there wasn’t time to put that much thought into it, not with such an openly vulnerable face staring up at him with eyes like dark-rimmed saucers.

Battle had aged Bas’ir, but he looked younger when he wanted something that badly. He looked like the same creature who once hid beneath his desk at the Studium and sucked him off during office hours. And _that_ memory certainly didn’t help the Exarch maintain his composure.

G’raha wanted to want something else—to turn him away and rush somewhere private where he could finish himself. That’s the most any responsible man would’ve done, but he couldn’t make it happen. Not after what he’d seen, heard, felt—Bas’ir’s pale skin lit with pink, the wet sounds of his hungry cock, the tight hole that both squeezed him and accepted his presence so easily. He nearly growled in frustration. “Your...your mouth should be enough.”

Yellow eyes glistened in victory. “Thank you, Exarch.” Like he’d been given a medal.

“Through my robes. That’s all.”

“If you insist…”

The Exarch felt the gaze upon the stiffness at his center and thought he should’ve been doing something with his hands instead of standing there like a horny mannequin. But Bas’ir, at least, seemed to know what to do with himself. He took one stretch of fabric in each hand and gently pushed them aside like he was drawing drapes.

“Have you long been an untouched man, Exarch?” Bas’ir said. “I trust you’ll stop me if my ministrations prove to be excessive.”

_Anything_ would be excessive. They were far past that milestone. Now G’raha just needed to make it out alive and shrouded. “Of course.”

Bas’ir blinked slowly and started itching off his right glove.

G’raha jumped. “N-no,” he said. “Your mouth. Please, I’d rather you not…” _Stumble upon my tail._ “I’d...rather you not.”

“Very well.” The Keeper leaned on his hands and honed in.

G’raha closed his eyes.

Felt the first tap of tongue against him. Made it through the initial wave, bobbing beneath the pressure, the fabric’s friction.

Bas’ir sighed a tender little song when he wrapped his lips around the Exarch’s tip, wetting it with spit and sucking. His breath was warm like home. The hidden Seeker fought the urge to lodge himself too deep too quickly. This man knew what he was doing, taking things slow enough to slick the fabric first. He made his way down carefully until the wetness of the robe outlined G’raha’s long-neglected length. Bas’ir ran his flat tongue from tip to base, looking up into shadowed eyes. Then he closed his mouth around G’raha and drew back slowly, all the way back until his thin lips popped off. “Exarch…” he said with a measured pitch that would’ve passed as a lusty lullaby.

The Exarch gulped.

“I was afraid I would enjoy this this much,” Bas'ir said. Next, he set his lips on the target again and rocked back and forth on his hands. G’raha’s heart accelerated with every pass. On the first, he failed to suppress a tender sound. On the second, he had to tense his legs to keep himself from wilting away. And by the third—the Exarch had both of his hands threading through Bas'ir's hair, holding him as a lifeline, holding him too tight for comfort. And as he held, he bent his knees and fucked the lips around his stifled member, slipping easily in and out with spit soaking the bend in his robes. He thought he'd forgotten how to feed someone like that. But his body remembered, remembered so hard that even when he came he couldn't stop himself from working through each frame again. He lost the rhythm—became too sensitive to regain it—and spent no less than three minutes holding his lost love's head in place and unsteadily driving his throbbing, touch-starved cock in and out of a hole that _somehow_ wanted him.

Bas'ir looked docile, his lashes long, his expression gentle. It belied how hard his tongue was working at G'raha's tip, flattening at the underside and flicking upwards, sometimes painting circles at his slit _woefully_ hidden from direct contact. What finally made G'raha pull out wasn't his own hyper-sensitive hardness, but the realization that his partner was rubbing himself through his clothes.

G'raha let go and stumbled back and out, gasping.

Basir's eyes popped open and he wiped his mouth. "Is aught amiss?"

"I...I…" Wrong way to start the sentence. He looked left, right, then landed on his staff and dove for it. "You should go," he said now, as though the magic weapon had imbued him with a better backbone.

The Warrior’s ears drooped in time with a wince. He started looking side to side as well before standing and brushing off his pants. “I...I hope…”

“I know not whether your intimacy weakens or...or strengthens me,” G’raha said, fixing his red and white robes over that sore, suspicious spot. “Pray, let me reflect on what has happened here.”

“I don’t mean to leave you” —he gestured at the mess on the floor— “with more burdens than you had before my arrival.”

G’raha shook his head. “Be on your way, Warrior.” A smile briefly appeared on his face, then disappeared. “Worry not for me.”

Bas’ir shifted his weight and rolled his neck, but despite his noisy history, he said nothing but a simple farewell, preceded by three words G’raha could not recall the man ever uttering before.

“As you wish.”

Those soft words sounded awful coming out of his sharp mouth.

-

Bas’ir remembered to remove his prosthetic before drifting into bed this time, but he knew he would have strange dreams anyway. Dreams about conflict or curses or crystals or Exarchs. Perhaps all of the above, although his sleeping fantasies were hardly ever so _direct_ a representation of what trouble him in the waking world.

What he remembered was a blank marble palace with swirling walls, ceilings, skies. He was sitting on a great white stair step when a blue figure sauntered into view and took his sweet time unblurring on his way from the horizon line. When finally his decorative gear fell out of the haze and into focus, Bas’ir rolled his eyes and offered a greeting before Bas’ir could speak. “Can I help you?”

“I’ve come to interrogate you,” the Bard Bas’ir said, propping one leg onto the staircase and one hand on his hip. His feathered cap looked unnaturally large. True Bas'ir hoped that in his own days as a musical warrior, he dressed more reasonably than this splinter of himself.

“What, pray tell, about?”

“About a poem you ought to remember. Do you remember it?”

True Bas’ir rolled his eyes. “Remember _what?_ You haven’t even named it yet.”

“Why should I have to? It’s your bloody dream.”

“Out with it, you.”

“Royal Blood Royal Body. _Living lightly and in haste, flowers have no time to waste._ You don't know this? You haven't heard it?"

"I don't _know_ if I've heard it, but I am quite certain I've no idea why you're dancing around with it like I’ve…" It started coming back to him. "...like I've left a stove on somewhere."

The dancer continued. "Like this, like this next. _If they wish to live with love they must craft their petals of—_ "

"The finest of the rosy things, yes, yes."

"No." He shook his head and pursed his lips. " _The finest of the_ fleeting _things,_ I say. _Beauty on their_ rosy _wings._ Do you see, now?"

Bas’ir sighed. “I seem to vaguely recall it.”

“The next line then. Two lines, if you can.”

He crossed his arms and furled his brow in annoyance. “Er...something about… _loveliness is all you’ll see if with them you choose to be._ ”

This pleased Bas’ir’s other self, who nodded into the poem’s next part. “ _Yet there is another kind. Hardly searching you will find something that they call a weed. Yet it still grows from a seed—_ ”

“ _Freshly blooming with less grace than the flower’s pretty face_.”

The Bard raised his fist high and clenched it. “ _Do you wish for these things?_ ”

Bas’ir answered dumbly. “ _Never. Only ‘cause they last forever._ ”

The Bard tilted his head left to right with an increasingly smug brand beneath his brow. “There’s but one more stanza, o, you who does not remember. Care to close us out?”

“No, not really.”

“Curse you, then. Curse your family!”

“You are insufferably…” Bas’ir sighed. “ _Perhaps though if you gave a chance to all the blooming garden plants, a certain precious thing would make its home just past your garden gate. A favored gorgeousness unending, its splendor always there befriending all the passing eyes it meets—every living being it greets would hear this endless beauty say ‘here forever I will stay._ ’” The Bard clapped and Bas’ir waited for the echoes of his two lucky little hands of flesh to finish booming throughout wherever they were before speaking again. "It wasn't even a very good poem."

The Bard tilted his head in slow motion with big, blooming eyes. "Then _why_...do you still remember it?"

“Because…” He squinted and looked at the ambiguously pulsing sky.

“Because...you…”

Like a bolt from the blue, it hit him. “Because I like it.”

“Because you like it.”

“And that’s okay.”

“That’s...okay.”

He decided then that he liked the Crystal Exarch very much. And that, perhaps, it was okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I guess that's done then. Expect me to make some edits here or there, maybe update the table of contents with some other crap. Thanks for making it this far. This event is wonderful and has consistently managed to motivate me like no self-imposed challenge has before. And for the writers reading this, expect my comments soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Screams make me stronger!
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@crystalsexarch](https://twitter.com/crystalsexarch)


End file.
